


A Place Further From Me

by lilpeas



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alpha Billy Hargrove, Alpha Steve Harrington, Basketball, Developing Relationship, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fluff and Humor, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Mates, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Pining, Slow Burn, Soulmates, Sports, Trope Subversion/Inversion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:47:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 70,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24947122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilpeas/pseuds/lilpeas
Summary: Because of course Billy would meet his mate here, now: when he’s eight months away from finishing high school and needs to give the best perfomance of his life, on the court and in the classroom, to get back to California.And of course Steve’s taken. Of course he’s not interested. Story of his life. Billy’s never gotten anything he wanted, so why should the apparent love of his fucking life be any different?
Relationships: Billy Hargrove & Maxine "Max" Mayfield, Billy Hargrove & The Party, Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Comments: 389
Kudos: 664





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this is just a silly little idea I've had rattling around my cage for a while, and my attempt at subverting some tropes I adore - namely Alpha/Omega, because Steve and Billy are both Alphas, and the scenting trope, because I wanted to subvert the whole “irresistible” thing we see in a/b/o worlds!
> 
> Title from the poem ‘Morning’ by Frank O'Hara 🌞🌞🌞
> 
> _do you know how it is_   
>  _when you are the only_   
>  _passenger if there is a_   
>  _place further from me_   
>  _I beg you do not go_

When Billy steps out the Camaro, it’s all eyes on him. It prickles against his skin, makes him want to bare his teeth and snap on instinct.

Instead he takes a drag of his cigarette. He holds the smoke deep in his chest, feels the burn and relishes the taste of it in the back of his throat.

Christ. What fucking losers. They’re staring as if he’s some kind of meat, and it's really fucking pissing him off.

It’s as if they’ve never seen an Alpha before – though Billy can’t imagine there’s many around here. It’s probably an entire school of Betas.

He exhales in a gust, drops his cigarette and stabs it out on the concrete with his boot heel.

Max gets out without a word. She slams the door and skates away.

Billy huffs. He watches her red hair float around a corner before he kicks up off the side of the car and walks into Hawkins High.

There’s an itch all over his body, the eyes of everyone on him, but he ignores it the best he can.

Still, something compels him to glance to his side. There’s a pair of eyes that feel particularly intense. Billy can’t ignore the pull to look any longer.

He glances over.

A boy ducks back into his car. He gathers some books from the dashboard, holds them all up to his chest and gets out. He’s wearing a sweater over a polo-shirt, all square and prim looking.

He’s cute.

Sure in the preppy, Ivy League kind of way, but it’s undeniable. Floppy brown hair tuffed up at the front and tucked around ears at the side. Sloping nose. He’s a pretty boy alright.

Billy doesn’t exactly know why he’s surprised. It’s not as if California isn’t crawling with them. Maybe it’s the shock of finding one in Nowhere Town, Indiana.

Or maybe it’s the force of the glare Billy had felt over the hood of his car before the guy had turned away.

Billy feels his eyebrows tick up.

He watches Pretty Boy walk off with a girl under his arm, typical poster child for every success in life.

It sets Billy’s teeth on edge. For some reason the sight of them – somebody he doesn’t know, has never met, is nobody to Billy – with their arm around a girl wriggles under his ribcage and sits _wrong_ with him.

Billy ignores it. Carries on with his day, gets himself registered, flirts a little with the office ladies, and heads to class.

As soon as he’s assigned a seat, he spots Pretty Boy up front scribbling notes.

Billy chews his gum all obnoxious, studies the tense line of Pretty’s Boy’s shoulders, and kicks back in his seat.

He waits, and waits, and sure enough –

“Steve Harrington?”

“Here.” Pretty Boy – _Steve_ – calls out, distracted and absent-minded.

His voice has that midwestern lilt, all soft and twanging. Billy would be lying if he said it didn’t send a little thrill up his spine, raise the hairs along his forearms.

He levels a stare at the side of Harrington’s head, wills him to turn and meet Billy’s challenge.

Pretty Boy doesn’t seem to notice.

But Billy’s skin is itching something awful, a familiar restlessness prowling underneath him, as if he needs to run fifty laps or punch a wall. He strums his fingers along the table and sneaks glances at Harrington whenever he can, hoping he’ll catch Harrington’s eye at some point.

Harrington doesn’t look over once.

Billy looks away when it becomes too long and the teacher gives him a pointed eyebrow. Billy starts doing the questions on the board and feels an answering pair of eyes along his nape.

When he checks back in, Harrington is in the same position as before.

*

Billy’s thirteen when he learns about something called a sports scholarship.

“Hold up.” He says to his friend Noah. It’s a hot day in California, and they’re on the bench in shorts and t-shirts watching soccer practise pass them by. “You mean they pay for _everything_?”

“ _Everything_ , dude.” Noah’s eyes are alight. Billy doesn’t even know how his look, wide and awed and open. “Tuition fees, room board, even some of the textbooks man.”

“Holy shit.” Billy says. Because Holy Shit. “How did you even hear about this?”

“Coach just told me.” Noah waves over to the field where coach is, yelling no doubt.

Billy feels a sharp spike of jealousy at that. It squirms underneath his ribcage and stays there.

He told Noah. He didn’t tell Billy.

“But he also said, like, 2% of highschool athletes actually get one.” Noah carries on. “It’s super difficult, man. Insane difficult. You have to be pro-level by the time highschool ends to even be considered. And I think you get scouted by the top coaches all over the country. So even if our coach thinks we’re good, that still won’t cut it. Plus it’s mostly Alpha’s that get picked anyways.”

Billy looks down at where they’re both sat, on the side-lines while practise goes on without them.

Coach clearly doesn’t think they’re all that good. They do well when they’re actually on the pitch, but that’s if they’re actually _put_ on the pitch.

They’re good, but everyone else is better.

And they both haven’t hit puberty yet to know whether they’d even be genetically advantaged. No fucking way if either of them turns out to be Omega they’ve got a shot in hell.

Not that there aren’t Omegas in the big leagues, just that they’d need to have worked a lot harder and a lot _longer_ than Billy’s ever done.

And _fuck_ , Billy’s been thinking about this as some spare-time _hobby_. He loves basketball sure, and soccer is alright, but Billy spends most of his time reading Franz Kafka and Kurt Vonnegut. He spends most of his time studying for tests and rewriting essays in advance.

He’s been going about this all _backwards_.

Because he could get out. He can get out. He can get out and it won’t even _cost_ _any money._

Forget his ideas about selling his soul, getting a job the morning he’s sixteen and working himself to the bone. He can get it all, everything, for fucking **_free._**

All he needs to do is put in the work now.

“You’ve got a weird look on your face.” Noah says. “Like you wanna punch something.”

Noah isn't unfamiliar with Billy’s outbursts. Who the fuck isn’t? He’s got two parents at home who have screaming matches along with the help of a few plates, while Billy clamps hands around his ears and pretends he’s somewhere else.

“Just thinking.” Billy assures. His leg bounces as he considers it. He’d have to set up some kind of regimen. And do a lot more work in gym, probably start lifting weights. And eat a hell of a lot cleaner.

So just like that, Billy does.

He hits it too hard the first couple days, and has to stop after the fifth lap of the track to bend and throw up. Rookie mistake.

Only that also happens after 100 sit-ups in a row.

Billy admits defeat and heads to the library.

He scans and health and exercise section, skims his fingers along their hard spines before eventually taking them all out. The librarian gives him a tight grin when she sees him coming. Billy just leaves with a tip of his head and an armful of books.

Noah drops off after a month.

“I’m exhausted.” He says, simple, and sits down on the spot. “I quit.”

“What?” Billy blinks, frowns down at the track and looks back. “We’ve not even done one lap.”

“Billy, do we need to it _every day?_ Can’t we take a day off? My stomach is killing me.” Noah clutches his sides, peering up at Billy from under his bangs.

“Yeah we gotta do it every day, we need to be _better_ –”

Noah waves a hand, stands up, and starts walking.

“Where are you going?” Billy calls.

“Getting fries!”

“But the book said –” Billy starts.

Noah is already too far away to hear.

Billy huffs, chews on his lip, shakes his head, and starts running.

Two months in and Billy is hungry _all the fucking time_. Salad and potatoes just don’t cut it the same.

Two months in and all his friends and grinning and rubbing their bellies as they shove burgers in their mouths.

Two months in and Billy can see a little definition on his stomach.

Three months in and he’s a regular on the soccer pitch. He waves at Noah on the bench, who waves back and gives two thumbs up.

Three months in and his mom pinches his side and notes how much taller he looks, how much _bigger_.

She’s got tired bags around her eyes. Billy still beams.

Four months in and Billy makes point guard in the basketball team. _Point guard_. He bounces on his way home and receives a ruffle of his hair from his mom, a stiff nod from his dad.

Four months in and Billy barely breaks a sweat around the track. Four months in and Coach’s eyebrows rise as Billy trots up to the finish line and smile wide, miles in front of the team.

It takes half a year for Billy to see results. He wakes up before the sun’s risen, goes to sleep while it’s still light.

Most of the time though, Billy lies awake and catalogues the pros and cons of each college on his Top List. The world opens up in front of him like a long, long track of asphalt, stretching endlessly and ever wider.

Then he finally, finally freaking hits puberty. Alpha. He's an _Alpha_. The world is on his side for once.

So of course that’s when mom packs up her bags and leaves.

Of course that’s when dad starts getting blind drunk most days, and Billy starts calling him ‘Sir’ out loud and Neil inside his own head. Of course that’s when clicked fingers at a snarky comment from Billy turn into being shoved against a wall.

Of course that’s when three years of his life wash down a drainpipe like murky water, before Neil meets Susan and they move to the small shitty town of Hawkins, Indiana.

*

It doesn’t take long for people to notice. That Billy is insanely jacked: that at the ripe age of 17 he’s freakishly built like an athlete and one in their prime at that.

That Billy looks more like a man than a boy. That Billy, in all honesty, looks like something fresh out a fucking magazine.

It starts in the locker room, as it always does. A few heads swivelled his way as he’s getting dressed for basketball. Billy seriously can’t wait to see what they have on him in terms of skill and experience.

He seriously can’t wait to fucking pummel this entire school to the ground.

Billy’s always looked like this, and he’s always been looked at like this. He hit the gym, then puberty, then his body took it from there.

The looks never stopped.

All their eyes all slide off him; curious, appreciative, surprised, cataloguing. Billy even senses some lingering ones as well, the scent of arousal that trickles into the air.

Being an Alpha gives a heightened _consciousness_ to a certain type of reception, if he can put it delicately. And that reception is always pretty much unmistakeable.

It doesn’t exactly surprise him. There’s always a few queers in any school. Billy should know: he is one. One big fat beautiful queer.

Doesn’t bother him most days. He keeps that shit private. He’s not got time for that shit anyway: training is his life.

He’ll be long gone from Hawkins, and a speck of dust in the horizon of Neil Hargrove's motherfucking eyes, before he does anything about it.

Everyone in this room is a Beta. No Omegas. No Alphas.

Billy supposes it’s because of all the inbreeding. It’s a small town, after all, and there’s probably not much else to do. Especially for all those stay at home suburban wives.

Nothing wrong with being Beta. It’s not as if it matters, either. Just means Billy is going to have one hell of a time trying to explain a rut to a school that probably never bothered to add it to the syllabus during sex-ed.

And also have a shitty time asking for the week off because of it.

Then Steve Harrington walks in.

Billy perks up immediately. That same strange awareness claws at his skin and invades his nostrils, invades his goddamn _mind_. Billy would need to be a hell of a lot closer to the door get a good whiff of the guy, but for some reason he knows it’s Steve.

Somehow, Billy knows it’ll be Steve before he comes in.

He knows, and he looks up, and Steve Harrington walks into the locker room.

Steve’s eyes fall directly on Billy, as though they were already focused there before he even knew that's where Billy was standing.

A static shock goes through him when their eyes meet. Billy actually jolts upright as it travels along his entire body. He sees Steve do the same, pause at the doorway. His eyes are brown. Light brown. There’s a buzzing in Billy’s head.

He takes a step towards Steve, his foot lifting without any conscious thought. He’s barely conscious of moving.

“ _Woah_.” Tommy Hagan whistles low and steps between them. “Is this an Alpha Face-Off?”

Billy blinks. The buzzing fades a little. He looks at Steve, forces his foot to stop. “You’re Alpha?” His voice sounds like rough gravel being put through a blender.

Steve looks from Tommy to Billy. He wets his bottom lip, the skin glistening pink. He nods.

Billy pushes around Tommy and takes another step closer.

Tommy holds his hands up and gives them a wide berth. His grin is a mile wide, clearly anticipating a show-down.

But everyone in the locker room is watching now as Billy, bare-chested and halfway dressed in gym shorts, steps up to Steve, whose backpack strap is clutched in a white-knuckled grip.

Then Billy gets a whiff of him.

He rears back on instinct, features crumpling. “Jeez, you stink.”

It’s true. The smell is fucking _awful_. Steve reeks of it. The smell is on him, _all over him,_ on his clothes and in his hair and -

Steve blinks, expression slack in shock.

The scent thickens.

Rage, sudden and swift, explodes in Billy’s chest. It makes no sense but Billy isn’t thinking sense. He’s thinking the way Steve smells is the worst thing he’s experienced and he needs to get rid of it. A growl builds in the base of Billy’s throat. He clenches his jaw to keep it in, but it’s such an effort to hold between his teeth that it keeps Billy’s feet planted to the floor. Billy’s fingers twitch – the itch to claw the smell off Steve, to get it the _fuck off him_ , crawls it’s way along his arms.

Steve does the total opposite.

He takes a step closer, tentative. And then his face shifts and suddenly he’s walking right on up to Billy. Steve towers over him, a good couple inches taller, before he presses their foreheads together with his nostrils flared.

Billy wraps a hand around his throat.

Steve’s eyes widen.

Billy presses down with his fingertips and feels the rush of life flowing through Steve. He feels the throb of Steve’s pulse. Billy revels in the sensation, squeezing down a little. The pulse answers him. It beats against Billy’s skin in a staccato rhythm, soothes every instinct that makes Billy wants to scream his lungs out.

Then Steve swallows. Billy feels the movement of Steve’s oesophagus on his palm.

Somehow, the explosion bubbling under the surface of Billy's skin evaporates like dust. That act makes the anger dissolve.

Steve’s cheeks are flushed, eyes steady on Billy. But his hands are by his side. His posture is open, relaxed, breathing steady. He makes no attempt to remove Billy’s grip. Yes. _Yes_. Because he knows Billy’s hand should be here, he knows he smells wrong and he needs–

Clapping erupts in the locker-room, sudden and abrupt. It cuts through the haze. Billy’s hand jerks back, and then he jumps at the hands that fall on his shoulders.

“Yeah! Looks like we’ve got a new King of Hawkins!” Tommy shouts in his ear, oblivious to Billy’s rough shove to get him off.

“Sorry Steve, you’ve been dethroned!” Someone else shouts.

“We’ve got another Alpha now, and he just handed you your ass.”

There’s more laughter, easy and carefree.

Billy blinks, brain fuzzy. He looks around at the grinning faces. He realises he just tried to choke somebody he's never met, and looks down at his open hand. It trembles a little.

Is that what just happened? Some kind of Alpha instinct?

Everyone in the room seems to think Billy and Steve just had a Face-Off for the title of King, because he’s guessing they’re the only two Alpha’s at Hawkins High and it seems like a logical explanation.

But Billy’s been around plenty of Alpha’s before. Alpha’s who he’s walked past no problem, Alpha’s who he’s been friends with, Alpha’s who he’s ruffled hair and slapped backs with.

He’s never felt anything close to how he felt when Steve walked in.

Even now, when Steve ducks past everyone and starts getting changed, Billy still feels an awareness of him.

He knows exactly where Steve is, which corner of the room, which piece of clothing he’s putting on, how hard his heart is beating. He can practically taste Steve's pulse. Even after Billy leaves the locker-room and heads out onto the court.

There’s an itching everywhere and it only really abated when he had his hand around Steve’s neck. He knows he could scent the air to try and get a feel of what Steve's thinking, but the thought of inhaling that putrid stink is enough to make Billy gag.

Right. Okay. Billy is _pretty fucking_ rattled about this development, but he forces himself to inhale slow and take stock.

Bared throat means submission. Clearly all Billy wanted was submission from Steve.

Biggest but: _why the fuck?_

Billy’s never wanted submission off an Alpha before, not even an Omega for that matter. Billy’s not a fucking corpse, plenty people have turned his head and gotten him hot under the collar. But he’s never wanted any of them to submit.

And Billy had never fucking felt so furious in his goddamn _life_.

Not even when Neil starting throwing back-handed slaps and dropping insults at the dinner table. Not even when Billy started getting into scuffles that devolved into fist-fights and another scorch-mark on his pristine academic record. Not even when his mom left without a second glance and left Billy to his shitty dad, his shitty life, this shitty feeling inside him that never goes away.

Steve’s scent personally fucking offended him, clawed underneath his flesh and buried itself in like a parasite and Billy needed it off, off, _off._

He needed to erase it from Steve, erase it from the motherfucking Earth, needed –

– needed to rub it off with his own scent, needed to cover Steve and blanket his body with Billy’s body and shove his nose jaw chin into the crook of Steve’s neck and scrape it away –

The whistle sounds.

Billy slaps his face with a resounding smack so loud a couple guys turn.

“Woo!” He cries, jumps up once, and throws himself into the game.

Billy stays at the other end of the court. Stays away from where he senses – _knows_ – Steve is.

It’s a full fucking effort, that’s all Billy will say. And he still pummels everyone on the court. Though Billy and Steve are on the same team.

They don’t pass to each other once.

At one point, when Billy is the only one open, Steve glances around and takes the shot despite having no chance of making it.

They win, of course, but that dumb as fuck move still makes them lose a point.

Billy makes sure to ram right into Steve’s shoulder as he’s walking past, and Steve stumbles heavily.

The glow of satisfaction heats Billy all the way down to the pads of his fingers.

It only lasts as long as it takes Billy to notice that Steve is ignoring him. Billy is getting dressed, enduring the celebratory slaps of some of the team as well as their wandering eyes, when he chances a look over at Steve and.

Nothing.

Steve’s back is turned to him, towelling his wet hair and drying off his body.

Billy feels his tongue grow fat and puffy inside his mouth as he watches Steve pull his shirt over his head, his lean arms flexing, his flat chest –

Billy looks away.

Looks back.

Steve’s dressed, head lowered, already finished after some kind of one second shower.

Billy hasn’t even started on a shirt. Steve’s eyes don’t land on him once.

He’s not looking at Billy.

He’s so focused on getting out as fast as possible that he hasn’t even glanced over, not even in curiosity.

Billy is literally the most physically attractive person in Hawkins. He’s in the best shape of his life and certainly in better shape than anyone in this shitty town, and Steve can’t even be bothered to check him out.

Not even in mild interest. Not even by accident.

Steve is studiously ignoring Billy. And he’s fucking succeeding. There’s not one slip up, because Billy would know. He would feel Steve’s eyes on him and he would _know_.

Steve leaves quietly. He brushes past everyone with his head down and leaves through the door and Billy stares after him the whole time.

What the fuck? What? The fuck? The fucking fuck?

Steve’s not even a little intrigued by Billy? Not even a split second of curiosity for the New Kid? Not even one momentary lapse?

Billy, who _everyone_ looks at. Middle aged women and pencil-straight jocks, everyone. Isn’t good enough for Mr. Perfect? Mr. Sweater Vests and Wholesome Pie?

He's not about to throw a tantrum, but why the fuck didn’t Steve look at Billy? Billy's a fucking Greek God. He’s practically made out of marble at this point. He warrents some freaking attention. A frustration swells up inside him, rises in his throat: a petulance he can barely remember feeling since he was _five years old._

It feels as if all his organs have been wrung out and laid to dry. Fucking hell. He hates Harrington, now he wants his attention? He’s disgusted by his scent and now that it’s gone he wants it back? He's furious at Harrington's existance but insulted at being ignored?

“Christ, Hargrove, pick a feeling.” Billy scrubs a hand across his face.

What the fuck is going on?

“Huh?” Tommy asks.

Billy ignores him. He heads out into the corridor towards his locker, opens it up, and inhales the musty stale air of the tin-can.

It clears his head a little. It still feels as if Steve’s scent is all over him, seeping into him, and Billy wants to rip the fucking feeling off. Wants to tear at his clothes and his skin and have a shower for a freaking _year_. 

Nothing makes sense. Not one fucking thing, and the sooner this day ends the better. Billy unloads a couple books and his gym clothes, closes the door, and then –

His head snaps around. 

That scent. That acrid fucking smell. It offends every single one of his senses worse than sewage, and it’s stronger than it was in the locker room. It's stronger than Steve Harrington's scent.

Billy follows it all the way to a girl. She leans against her locker, collects some books and stuffs them into her bag.

It’s the girl Billy saw Steve walk off with under his arm.

It’s her. Her smell that’s all over Steve. Her scent that’s on Steve’s skin.

Her scent is on Steve’s bare skin, and it radiates off him so thickly it’s as though he’s absorbed it.

Billy freezes on the spot. And then a soft wash of outrage comes down on him like a monsoon, and Billy isn’t aware of his body, of his mind, only that he needs to–

“Woah!”

Fucking _Tommy Hagan._

Tommy jerks back when Billy spins around with a mouth full of bared teeth.

“Jeez, the fuck is your problem?” Tommy staggers back.

“Who is that?” Billy grips Tommy’s front, yanks him around, and points to the girl. People are glancing over: he doesn’t care. “Is she Alpha too?”

“What, no!” Tommy laughs. “ _Wheeler?_ Nancy Wheeler? She’s Beta dude.”

Billy looks over quick and finds her retreating back, oblivious to the scene they're causing. He feels a wave of anger and desperation and _fear_ so strong it stings his throat because he needs to get to her, to _tell_ her, to explain to her that no, she can't smell like that –

“No way to assert the dominance like stealing the King’s girl, huh?” Tommy laughs low. “I’m kinda fucking impressed, Hargrove.”

Billy spares Tommy a glance. “What?”

“Nancy.” Tommy nods to where she left. “That’s Steve’s girlfriend. This what's got you so interested?”

Billy stares. His fingers, lifeless, release Tommy in a limp movement.

“Hargrove? Yo, Earth to Billy?” Tommy waves a hand in front of his face, an awkward chuckle forcing its way up his throat. He glances around at the eyes on them and turns back to Billy, expression caught in a stilted smile.

It doesn’t make sense. Billy doesn’t know Steve Harrington. He’s never met the guy before today, could hardly point him out in a crowd. He knows nothing about Harrington: not his hobbies, not his future plans, not even his fucking ice cream preference.

But Billy’s gut sinks to the soles of his boots. It's as though he's been sucker-punched with a fist.

He realises he’s motionless, open-mouthed, and only manages to gather his wits enough to stalk out the front doors of Hawkins High toward the Camaro.

He’s halfway there when he realises he can’t leave. He needs to wait for Max. He needs to take her home.

Billy does a U-Turn and strides across the parking lot. He probably looks like a complete idiot.

But he keeps walking, no clue where he’s going, only that there’s an energy that’s about to explode out of him.

Steve Harrington has a girlfriend. He’s got a girlfriend. A serious enough girlfriend to have scent-marked, and to be _scent-marked by._

That's what the smell is. It's not Steve. It's his fucking _girlfriend's._ It probably smells like nothing, smells like simple Beta or coconut or apple shampoo or cheap perfume or clean, normal skin.

It only smells fucking awful to Billy because Steve - because Steve is - because Billy -

Billy stops. He bends with hands on his knees, stares at the concrete beneath his feet. The edges of his vision grow fuzzy the longer he stares, spots of grey popping whenever he blinks.

It’s not. It’s not. It’s _not_.

Billy swallows down bile. He closes his eyes and takes a slow breath. He begs himself not to know it, to ignore it, push it down and deny it, just shove it down down deep down and away.

But he can't. 

He thought it would be different. Isn't it meant to be different? He's heard the stories, but Billy never thought any of them would happen to him. Sure it's not exactly rare for Alpha's to find one, but Billy never exactly factored it into the five year plan.

And isn’t it meant to be Alpha's and Omega's this shit happens to?

Since when does this happen between two Alpha's?

The stories paint it as wonderful, beautiful, a moment of recognition and peace and understanding. 

But no. Billy nearly chokes his mate to death on their first meeting.

Because of course Billy would meet his mate here, now: when he’s eight months away from finishing high school and needs to give the best perfomance of his life, on the court and in the classroom, to get back to California. 

And of course Steve’s taken. Of course he’s not interested. Story of his life. Billy’s never gotten anything he wanted, so why should the apparent love of his fucking life be any different?


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I seriously aimed for this chapter to be half the size of the last, but it's coming in just a little over, ahhh this may become long. 
> 
> Also, I am making up my own A/B/O rules and I can imagine they aren't the ones people are used to but I'm just playing around! I hope you still enjoy!

Billy thinks he does a pretty good job of ignoring Steve Harrington after that.

Well. If a good job can be classed as goading, prodding, and taunting Harrington at every chance he gets.

It’s not Billy’s fault. Steve – _Harrington_ , it’s Harrington now – just reacts so beautifully that he practically invites the torrent of abuse.

Billy wouldn’t exactly call it abuse, either. It’s more friendly teasing.

It just takes a little while to really rile him up. Takes a good few attempts; he won’t do anything after the first, second, or third prod.

But if Billy keeps pressing, keeps pushing his buttons, a flush will slowly steal its way over his face. The colour will drip down his chest and spill over his ears and his nose until he’s sat, purple-faced, vibrating in his seat, and studiously ignoring Billy.

Billy: who’s either flicking wads of balled up paper into his shirt collar, pushing off Harrington’s chair with one leg and balancing practically mid-air, turning off Harrington’s gym shower-tap every time Harrington turns it on, pressing himself up against Harrington’s back as Harrington dribbles the ball, or doing anything and everything Billy can think of that just might fucking annoy him.

The problem is that Harrington doesn’t even _look at him._ Not once. He doesn’t give Billy a second of his attention, as though Billy’s so far beneath it that Harrington can barely haul his eyes down to give him a glance.

And it _pisses Billy off._

It wriggles right under his skin and squirms, squirms all fucking day until Billy feels like he’ll explode if he doesn’t punch something or scream or make Harrington _look at him._

Billy gets it. He does. He got the message loud and clear and in neon writing; **_Steve Harrington is not interested. Steve Harrington is taken._**

And sure, did Billy think they might have a fucking civil discussion about being ‘mates’? Whatever the fuck that word entails.

Did he think Harrington might have the common decency to let him down like a gentleman, to discuss the ins and outs of how this might work – being mates and going to the same school and seeing each other every day apart from the weekends and, what, it being hard? It being really fucking painful for Billy?

Nah. Fuck that. Billy will be fine. Screw that guy, right? That’s what Harrington is effectively saying when he ignores Billy all day. When he slings an arm around Wheeler’s shoulder all casual and familiar.

Because Billy _knows_ that Steve knows. He just does.

He knows that Steve felt that same awareness the first day in locker-room, knows that Steve recognised what it was instantly. It might have took a second for Billy to catch up – because Steve was lathered in Nancy Wheeler’s fucking scent – and it didn’t make sense, it didn’t immediately trip the wire in his brain what was going on.

But Steve must have known instantly.

He must have scented Billy, unadulterated and pure, scented that Billy was his _mate_ – and known intrinsically, inexplicably, that this person he’d known for three seconds was the person meant for him, the person his instincts screamed out for, clawed him apart at the seams to stake a claim to.

How could he have not?

There’s no possible way he didn’t feel it.

Billy felt it even while Steve was so scent-marked, it was like two sticks of cinnamon shoved up Billy’s nose and lodged into his brain tissue. Billy still feels it even now, while Steve ignores him and brushes him off and acts as though Billy is dirty gum on the sidewalk.

So Steve _must_ fucking feel it, with the way Billy is throwing himself at Steve at every turn and forcing Steve to acknowledge it, just fucking _acknowledge_ Billy as his mate.

Billy saw it in that split-second recognition in Steve’s eyes. He saw it in the way Steve marched up and pressed the weight of his head against Billy’s, nostrils large, expression dark.

Then it was gone, quick as that. Steve avoids looking anywhere near him, keeps his head bowed and lowered whenever Billy is in the vicinity. Keeps his jaw clenched, tongue bitten and expression clean as Billy pokes at him every which way.

Billy doesn’t think he would mind a rejection. He could respect a rejection. He would understand it, find closure in in, say _alright cool you had the balls to reject me, fair play._

But this cold shoulder? This complete silent treatment, as if Billy doesn’t even exist? That lights a fire right inside Billy and it burns him up.

To be ignored by his own fucking mate. Yeah, that stings.

Billy is popular, smart, ambitious, and hot as hell. Still it didn’t make a difference. Still it didn’t dent the opinion of the one person who is meant to accept him and want him above anyone else.

And Billy can understand it. He understands. Steve’s mate is a guy _and_ an Alpha? There’s pretty much nothing more abhorrent or unnatural.

Usually these situations happen predominantly between Alpha’s and Omega’s. Sure there might be the odd same-sex couple thrown in for good measure who get a few glances, who might not get served a milkshake at a specific diner, but are otherwise accepted as being mates. Irrefutable. Indisputable. Alpha and Omega.

Even if the whole reproduction thing is made harder, there are surrogates and ways to go about it. Because Alpha’s and Omega’s have the best combination of DNA, produce the healthiest of babies with the healthiest set of genes.

The odd ones are anything in-between that. Most people don’t even believe them.

An Omega with an Omega? The ever loving fuck are they meant to do during a heat? There’s barely one braincell left to share between them once the frenzy kicks in.

And a Beta and an Omega? A Beta and an Alpha? How on Earth can they be mates if Betas don’t even experience a mating cycle at all? Just plain old normal sex, lights off when someone’s feeling frisky and it’s all over in ten seconds? How are they meant to last a bare minimum of three whole days?

An Alpha and an Alpha. That’s unnatural. It’s impure.

Alpha’s are meant to settle down with Omega’s and raise children in a loving, balanced household. Even if they couple are same-sex, at least their natures are different: at least their natures are there to show kids a healthy, normal relationship.

And an Alpha with an Alpha has got to be the worst out a bad bunch. Even if it were man and woman, wedded in holy matrimony and all that shit, if they were both Alpha’s – well, it would take a lot of convincing for anyone to take them seriously.

There’s scent-marking, of course, and then the bond that naturally occurs after a heat-cycle spent together between mates. A bond that’s been studied and examined and theorised over. A mind-link, some people call it. A shared awareness of emotion and thought. It’s easily identifiable through a quick run of the mill brain-scan and questionnaire to match up answers. _What are they thinking right now? We are going to show them a picture, can you see it?_

So Billy gets it. The options aren’t exactly appealing. Ignore Billy and hope he goes away; or accept Billy as his mate and deal with the ramifications, social stigma, rigmarole of proving their relationship, the blood tests and invasive examinations, all just to be sneered at by middle-aged white ladies for the rest of his life?

Yeah. Billy knows the one he would pick.

Only – it’s not the one that Billy has actually picked.

Because as Billy lies awake at night, staring at the white wallpaper peeling off the ceiling, he realises that he would rather know love even if it was hard than to not know love at all.

He realises that’s the option he would always pick. In Steve Harrington’s shoes, even if it were new and terrifying and Billy had never thought about a guy that way or imagined his life having an additional layer of added bullshit to it, Billy would still find a way to explain to Wheeler and to talk to Steve. He would just find a way.

 _Steve Harrington is a fucking coward,_ Billy thinks with venom when Steve avoids his gaze for a full week. He’s a coward and it eats Billy up inside. And the thing that eats him up is the simple fact that it does eat at him, while Harrington seems to manage on just fine.

And maybe this is just because Billy is the scorned party in this scenario. Maybe if Billy actually were in Steve’s position, going about his small Suburban life with his perfect little girlfriend until Steve Harrington rocked up and unsettled the very foundations he had laid his whole life. Maybe he’d feel different.

Yeah. Billy can sometimes see it from ~~Steve’s~~ Harrington’s perspective.

Because sometimes Billy gets the feeling that Harrington isn’t exactly managing fine. Sometimes, Billy gets the feeling that he’s grappling at straws just as much as him, that his tight shoulders and stiff posture whenever Billy’s around is a little more than annoyance, his blood-red flush across his whole chest something more than irritation.

But _what_ exactly, Billy has no goddamn clue. And Christ, to have _no contact_ at all? To studiously and utterly ignore Billy the entire time they’ve got left at high-school?

Couldn’t they at least try for friends? Billy’s heard of platonic mate-bonds. Maybe they aren’t as common or as strong as the romantic ones but they work just as well. Some people’s soulmates are their friends: some people are meant to be together throughout their lives in different ways. Some people just click, work together, understand one another without the need for words.

They might make good friends. If Harrington doesn’t want the whole hassle that comes with a romantic bond, wouldn’t a platonic bond be the next best bet?

Why does it immediately have to jump to fucking _radio silence?_

Billy would take a platonic bond. Better than nothing.

So what if Billy’s – fucking _reluctantly_ – attracted to Harrington? What the fuck does that matter? Surely some platonic mate-bonds have an element of attraction to them. At least a _modicum_ of some kind of interest has gotta be there. Doesn’t everyone think about that sort of shit with their friends at least once, even out of pure and simple curiosity?

Christ, is Billy really supposed to believe that these platonic mates haven’t ever even _thought_ about it? The idea never _once_ popped into their head? He calls bullshit.

And Billy could handle it. The attraction, that is. Steve Harrington isn’t fucking irresistible. He’s good looking: that’s it. So Harrington would have Wheeler and Billy would have. Something, somewhere down the line. And they wouldn’t have to fight their instincts every day, instincts that scream at Billy and _must, must, must_ scream at Steve for them to acknowledge whatever the fuck is going on.

Well. The answer is evidently no in Harrington’s eyes. To any of it. Because after a week he’s still ignoring Billy as much as the first day they met.

Billy has pretty much exhausted every way to piss him off, and in turn that pisses _Billy_ off, so he shoves Harrington in the hallways and starts ignoring him back.

A heavy silence descends over them both.

A silence that Billy will be damned if he breaks first.

So of course there’s a Halloween party at somebody called Tina’s house, who Billy has never met and hopes it stays that way. Billy’s only going because there’s absolutely _nothing else_ to do. At least in California there were options.

Nope: Hawkins seems to have a set schedule of one event every weekend. House party, house party, house party. He’s almost sure they have a rota.

He puts the barest minimum effort into a costume, throws a leather jacket on and calls himself someone from Grease. It’s not as if Billy actually cares about this dumb hick town and its hick little residents. He’s not about to fork out any cash.

He walks because he feels like it, even though it is in fact the 31st of freaking October. His breath blows out in plumes, the tip of his nose grows numb, and the rough, dry sound of his hands rubbing together cracks in the air like a gunshot.

Billy arrives cold, hungry, and pretty pissed off. What the fuck is new.

He finds the punch easily, doesn’t use the scoop as he grabs a cup and dips it in. There’s a girl watching him. Billy takes a long swig before he gives her a grin, crunching on ice. The punch drips over his fingers and down his wrist.

She blinks, flips her hair to her back and turns around.

Billy laughs, bright and loud and a little over the top. She ignores him, but Billy can smell her interest a mile away. She’s practically projecting. Hawkins and their poor repressed little lives. She’ll never know what it feels like to flirt a little, to be a bit fucking daring and brave and _wild_. Just fucking WILD for the sake of it.

And she’ll never know that Billy knows: too used to Beta’s and their useless noses. Now that’s just the icing on the cake.

“Billy!” A voice booms in his ear, and then Tommy slaps his back in one sharp movement, too quick for Billy to grip his wrist and bend all four fingers back.

Billy whips around, ready to crack his knuckles on Tommy’s jaw, until he sees the group gathered behind Tommy.

He twists his mouth up into a smile.

“Hey!” He barks, a little too hard to sound genuine. They all seem none the wiser. Billy counts four extra heads alongside Tommy, all staring at him with wide eyes as though Billy is some exotic new animal at the zoo.

It rankles right under his ribcage and sits there, undigested. Billy hates these stares. He hates every single fucking thing about Hawkins, but he hates these stares the most.

Billy has never hated being the only Alpha in a room until the room acted as though that fact was the most freakishly weird thing to ever fucking occur. It’s as if a bolt of lightening has struck right at everyone’s feet sixteen times. Billy would have thought the slack jaws were overkill if he couldn’t also smell the sheer shock and fascination.

It prickles the nape of his neck like a constant itch there’s no scratch for.

But Billy keeps the grin in place, because even if Tommy is showing Billy off like some prize chicken at the farm, he’s still managed to gather quite an audience here.

And Billy needs to work on a little something called his popularity. If he’s staying here in this shit hole for an indeterminate amount of time, he should probably start settling in.

As much as Billy might fucking resent it, having people to sit with in the canteen would make life a bit easier. As easy as life in Hawkins is going to get.

“Are you gonna do the keg stand?” Tommy asks, eyes bright. “Harrington’s the current record holder, but I figure you could beat him easy.”

Now that.

That perks Billy’s attention right on up.

“Huh.” He says, mouth pursed. “ _Huh_. Whereabouts is this thing?”

“Outside.” Tommy tips his head backwards. “Harrington’s best is forty seconds. Think you can do it?” There’s a mean glint in Tommy’s eyes, anticipatory and spiteful. Billy thinks there’s probably a personal reason for his obsession with beating Steve Harrington, but he can’t really care right now.

Because Billy really fucking needs to beat Steve Harrington.

So in response, Billy shoves his cup at Tommy chest and barges past him into the backyard.

Sure enough there’s a keg stand, and someone being gentled down from a handstand with a vaguely green look about them.

Billy grins wide, rolls his shoulders, and starts forward.

He lasts forty-two.

Tommy’s screeching right in his goddamn _eardrum_ and another guy is tapping his watch frantically in his face, but Billy keeps going. His shirt falls down so far that it bunches around his throat and exposes his whole abdomen, which gets a cheer of catcalls and whistles.

So Billy lifts one hand off the wet ground and undoes all the buttons. The cheering gets louder. He puts both hands back on the ground and does a push-up, really fucking showing off, really milking it at this point, until a sudden rush of light-headedness hits him and somebody shouts, “ _Forty-two!”_

Billy swings his legs down and throws his hair back in a wet arc with a manic grin, every row of teeth on display. The cheering and whistles practically shake the ground, and Billy throws a fist in the air with a holler of, “WOO!”

Pride glows in his gut because he beat him, _he beat Steve Harrington,_ he fucking proved himself. Billy shoves his jacket and then his shirt off, soaked through his beer. The ladies all squeal and laugh into one another, so Billy drops them a wink and makes them giggle louder.

Tommy hands him a cigarette; Billy bites it off his fingers and waits until he holds up the lighter up for Billy. Tommy’s beaming, bright and flush-faced, cupping the flame close to his mouth. Billy sniffs the air a little, but he only finds beer and smoke and drunken happiness coming off him.

Billy’s about the last person in the world that would have a problem with a guy being into him, and he’s certainly fucking used to it by now, but for some reason he finds himself relieved.

It’s fine when it’s girls. It’s easy, and familiar, and Billy can take them for dates and half-ass them the entire time and somehow make them like Billy even more, as if he’s a wounded animal in need of healing. But it’s always fine because nothing happens and no feelings are involved and Billy maintains his image while they maintain the fucking honour of getting a date with him.

It gets messy with guys. Firstly it’s not fucking allowed: in school, at the movie theatre, at a diner, at the park, at any public venue. Sure it can be played off as friends, but the glances and the whispers and the clipped responses from the waiter always bleed in eventually. The cogs start whirring, start snapping into place.

It gets messy because feelings always get involved, somehow, in every situation. It’s never as easy as a kiss behind the bleachers and a casual nod in the hallway. It always hurts someone; somewhere along the line. Someone always either wants to take it that step forward and go on a date or they want to cut ties entirely, and there’s no in-between. There’s only Billy, caught in the fucking middle of this fucking ultimatum, all the time.

And that was California.

Billy is willing to make a bet that Hawkins would take a pitchfork to anyone they so much as think is homosexual.

The other problem is that Billy’s dad is a raging homophobe. In addition to being a general and all round piece of shit.

It’s 1985. It’s not illegal. Be the change you want to see in the world and all that bullshit. Don’t be a coward. Don’t be a bitch. Stand up to him. Stand up for fucking _something_.

Billy’s heard it all. And maybe he would have, if the guy saying it was a good enough reason to give up everything.

But Billy can’t give Neil Hargrove the satisfaction. He can’t give Neil the fight he’s been looking for his whole life, and the excuse to do a little more than dirty up his face.

He’d rather die than allow it.

Neil will be long dead and Billy will be at least ten states away from his grave before he takes a guy out on a date. Before he stops feeling that every little passing attraction, every stupid little crush, just confirms Neil’s worst assumptions and so maybe everything else he said about Billy was right too.

Billy stiffens. Something zaps along his spine.

Steve’s here.

Billy can’t scent anything. He’s covered in beer and he’s smoking a cigarette and he’s surrounded by half the house party, but he knows it.

Somehow, Billy knows Steve is here.

He starts back towards the house, Tommy hot on his heels. People clap his back and shake his shoulders as he passes but he barely notices, too intent on finding Steve. The alcohol has made him stupid, lowered his guards, and all he wants is Steve.

The same scent – strange and wrong, like the sensation of anaesthesia at the back of his throat – makes itself known the closer Billy gets. It sinks its nails into Billy’s brain even while he wants, he _needs_ , to be closer to it. It makes no goddamn sense and the alcohol and the headrush have mingled in his brain to make his vision fuzzy at the edges.

Billy is inside, finally, and he whips his head around–

There.

Steve’s stood with a plastic cup, shoulders slouched, in a dark sweater and a pair of sunglasses. Who the fuck is he meant to be? He looks hot and rakish and devil-may-care. His hair is perfect. Fuck him.

Nancy Wheeler stands beside him. They both look utterly miserable, as though they would rather be anywhere else.

But Billy can’t detect anything from him.

For some reason, that fact sticks in his head. If Billy really wanted he could scent everyone in this entire room. He could scent their state of drunkenness and if they’ve taken weed or what deodorant they use and probably their current emotional state if he concentrated hard enough.

And Steve is Billy’s mate. Steve Harrington is Billy’s mate and he’s got no other proof other than he knows it, knows it to be true, deep down in his bones and in the marrow of them as well he’s fucking sure of it. He’s heard the stories, and they all paint the same picture, and it’s the same picture Billy is slapped in the face with every day.

But he can’t scent Steve.

There’s still that Wheeler smell, her scent all over his clothes, but there’s no _Steve_ underneath. It’s as if Steve doesn’t have a scent.

But that can’t be right. It just can’t be right. He needs to be closer.

Billy starts to make his way over. He bumps into people along the way, drunk and clumsy, steps on the sofa and over the lap of a couple making out, jumps off the sofa and finally, finally –

“Looks like we have a new Keg King, Harrington!” Tommy crows, right up against Billy’s back.

Billy doesn’t pay him any attention. He crowds up as close as he physically can without looking overeager, takes the cigarette out his mouth and juts his chin out to scent the air – he’s assaulted with Wheeler’s perfume, her laundry detergent, her powdery lipstick clinging to the corner of Steve’s mouth.

A pit of furious anger opens up in Billy’s gut, replaces the swell of pride and fills him up to his toes until he’s drowning in it.

Steve flips his sunglasses down and sizes Billy up.

Billy stands, frozen, because Steve has barely so much as looked at him the whole week he’s been here. His eyes are darker in the harsh kitchen light. They’re almost black. He blinks lazily like a cat as he brings his gaze up from Billy’s stomach to meet Billy’s eyes.

Billy is stiff, still, caught in Steve’s stare. His eyes are hard and focused and tense. They’ve got a hold of him and Billy can’t move.

Nancy huffs, tosses her hair and leaves.

Billy barely notices her go, until Steve tears his gaze away and his shoulders slouch further as he notices her retreating figure. “Nance!” He calls out, already going after her.

Billy blinks, dispelling the moment. He watches Steve Harrington’s back fade into the crush of people to comfort his girlfriend.

Billy feels fucking pathetic. He swallows the bitter, ashy rejection. Then he grabs a cup and starts drinking with the intent to black out.

*

The next time Billy comes to, he’s flat-out on his back in the yard, arms and legs star-fished. He blinks, the haze clears from his eyes, awareness rushes back in, and Billy thinks _oh. This is where I am._

Billy tries to lift his head up to little success. So he does the next best thing: he fishes a pack of cigarettes and a lighter out his pocket. He’s just clicked the flame on with unfeeling fingers when he hears a voice.

“Fucking hell, there you are.”

It sounds angry, low and half-muttered. Billy rolls his eyes up. Steve Harrington is upside down, hands on hips, glaring at him.

“Nnh?” Billy tries.

“Come on, you’ll set yourself on fire.” Steve reaches down and grabs his lighter out his numb fingers. He puts it in his own pocket.

“Ey!” Billy slurs. “S’ mine.” He tries to get up but only manages to roll onto his side and push around into a sitting position. Once achieved, Billy holds out an open palm.

Steve just raises a brow at him. “No. Come on, we’re going home. Been looking for you for the past hour.”

Billy feels his own eyebrows rise, his features slackening in surprise. “Yeh?” He asks. He tries to ignore how obviously warm his voice sounds. It’s nothing. It’s whatever, Steve won’t notice.

Steve huffs and looks off to the side. He taps his foot on the grass. It’s so familiar to Billy that it comes as a shock to realise Steve is actually talking to him, initiating conversation, _looking_ at him.

And Billy’s currently too fucking drunk to appreciate it.

Billy squeezes his eyes shut, shakes his head so hard his earrings whack his chin, then gets to his feet. He’s on the way back down when a hand shoots out and grabs his jacket.

Billy blinks. Steve’s clutching him close. His fingers are fisted tight in the leather, strong and steady.

Billy can’t form a response.

“You’re drunk.” Steve decides.

 _Well fucking done,_ Billy wants to say.

Instead, Billy closes a hand around Steve’s wrist. He feels Steve’s pulse beat against his fingertips, the same way he did the first day they met. His pulse is racing.

“Billy?” Steve gives him a little shake. “Come on, party’s over. I’m taking you home.”

Billy blinks again, fuzzy, feels his expression furrow. “Huh?” He tries to focus on Steve’s face but it blurs in front of him no matter how much he clears his vision. That scent, that terrible smell, begins to permeate the air.

Billy lifts a hand to scrub his eyes, dislodging Steve’s hand in the process.

Steve’s hand falls to his side, listless.

“I.” Billy starts, then exhales in an explosive gust as he rubs his face. “God, I fuckin’ _hate_ the way you smell, Harrington.”

“What the fuck!” Steve shouts. “Seriously? With this, again?”

Billy looks up, frowns. “What?”

“Look, you’ve made it pretty clear you’re not my biggest fan this whole week, Billy.” Steve crosses his arms over his chest. “I get it. Okay?”

Billy gapes. In a flash, he realises how this whole week might have looked from Steve’s perspective. The pushes, the shoves, the taunts, the snide remarks. They all look like rejection.

It looks as if Billy is loudly and obviously shouting: _I don’t like you. I don’t want you._

**_I don’t accept you as my mate._ **

“No, I – that’s not it.” Billy takes a step forward, even though he’s close enough to Steve that Steve needs to take a step back, eyes widening at Billy’s sudden change.

Billy doesn’t care, a frantic desperation swelling up in his throat at the thought that it’s been Billy’s fault this entire time, that _Billy’s_ the one who fucked this whole up.

“I – I didn’t – I’ve not – no, you don’t _get it_ –” Billy tries, but his tongue feels fat and heavy and he can’t push the words out, he can form them together to make his point, his hands are clumsy as they reach out.

“Okay.” Steve puts both hands on his shoulder and steadies him. “I think you’re drunk.”

“I’m not, it’s not – I don’t _not_ like you.” Billy manages to get out. Did that make any sense? “That’s not it, Steve, I just can’t stand the smell of–”

He's about to finish, _of Wheeler,_ but Steve beats him to it.

“I don’t smell like anything!” Steve explodes. He holds his arm up to his nose and takes a loud sniff. “See? I don’t even _sweat_ , that’s the point!”

Billy pauses, stumped. The air shifts, somehow: grows serious.

There’s a beat.

“The point of what?” Billy’s words are clear this time, voice low and husky.

Steve looks away. He doesn’t glance off to the side, though. He looks at their feet. “The – blockers, or whatever.” He waves a hand around.

Billy stares. “You take blockers?” Something starts to shrivel inside his stomach, because people who take blockers are sick. 

Steve nods. He looks up at Billy quick before blinking away.

“Are you.” Billy can barely finish. He feels cold.

“Huh? Oh, nothing’s wrong.” Steve is quick to assure; Billy is guessing because of the look on his face. “I just take them.” He gives a shrug. "I want to."

Which. _Great_.

Because this most definitely means that Steve can’t smell him, or anyone, and has no clue why Billy’s been acting the way he has for the past week. And this most definiteley the reason for the strange, wrong, medicated smell that rubs against the back of Billy's throat whenever Steve is near.

And this also means Steve has no clue that they’re mates.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: just gonna post a really short update to get them out faster!  
> this: is the longest chapter by far

Billy had a plan, and it was a good plan. It was a fucking _great_ plan. He had a list; has had a list since he was thirteen, and he’s practically ticked everything off on it.

Become an Alpha. Become stronger. Become better.

There were more specific stages than that, sure. But those three have pretty much been the gist of it his whole life.

When Billy was thirteen, the motivation for that plan was to move out his shitstorm of a house and take his mom with him.

To get them a place, nothing fancy, nothing big. Just a place near his college, so with his scholarship money he could get a part time job and his mom could find work and they’d pool together their small fortune and they’d get by. That’s all.

It wasn’t some grand scheme, some idea of fame and fortune. Billy didn’t particularly want to be the next star basketball player. He didn’t want to be a teacher or a scientist or a writer or an accountant or a lawyer or a doctor. He didn’t want anything. He just wanted that little apartment building near his college, maybe a couple friends to sit with in lectures, and to come home knowing his mom was safe.

Knowing she was free, and happy, and safe. He figured the rest would come eventually. If he had that, nothing else mattered.

Now, though, the motivation is different.

Now, it’s to get as far away as fucking humanly possible from Neil Hargrove and everything associated with him.

The college doesn’t matter. The job doesn’t matter. Billy’s got no hobbies squeezed into the soul-sucking schedule that is _eatsleephomeworkpractise._ Even the fucking food he eats can’t be classed as enjoyable. Eating is a job. Dry fucking chicken and rice, tasteless fucking vegetables, day in day out. Billy needs to look away most days when he sees people stuffing their faces with burgers and fries. His mouth floods with saliva before he swallows the thick paste.

Billy quickly realised that if he wanted to rise to the top of his school, then every school in America, he’d need to look the part as well as play it.

The scout would have to take one look at him in a line-up and see that he was different: see the physical evidence of how superior he was, how hard he’d trained, how much more committed, more determined – just how much fucking _better_ Billy was.

Sure, food is fuel and energy. It’s protein, nutrition, vitamins, minerals, and everything else under the fucking sun. Sure, if Billy tailors it just right, he can feel the difference of an energy bar or a protein shake while he’s working out.

But in fitness it’s also a diet, and a strict fucking one at that. And diets are pretty much used for one thing and one thing only: appearances. Either people want to lose weight or pack on muscle. There’s no in-between.

It’s in every goddamn book Billy takes out the library — browsing the aisles along with middle-aged women and pot-bellied men, who give him glances up and down as if he’s either lost or insane. Everyone wants to look different.

But Billy can’t afford a personal trainer or a gym membership, or pretty much anything other than crappy dumbbells and fresh groceries still caked in dirt from any little food stalls he can find.

So, libraries it fucking is.

Billy doesn’t exactly have the dough to even buy the book, and it’s not as though he could go home with it anyways, sit with his legs crossed and _Best Recipes for Fitness_ or _The Good Gut Diet_ or some of the worse titles like _How to Get That Perfect Body_ perched on his knee.

Other than the slight issue of it being motherfucking mortifying, Neil’s sure to ask questions. Sure to shove his nose right in. Sure to scoff, find new ways to mock, invent new insults and pick pick _pick_ like an old scab until he got to the root of it.

Billy’s been flying under the radar for the last five years. Doing weights when Neil is at work. Spending lunchbreak on the track or on the court. Going to after school study and calling it detention, which – to everybody’s fucking surprise – Neil actually prefers. Billy’s tried it both ways.

Hiding every award underneath the bed in a shoebox and below a stack of cassette tapes. Updating the landline in his school records with a new pizzeria every time they told him they’d called and the number was wrong. Fucking up the Parent’s Night date and suffering the rant and the backhand for it. Waving off the teachers and their invites to galas and literature festivals and science fairs.

So he’s not about to give everything away with some misplaced _cookbook_.

The one little problem, the one little hitch in his ironed out wrinkle free plan, is Steve Harrington.

The day after Billy met Steve — and subsequently a couple hours after Billy realised he both had a mate and his mate was fucking unavailable and uninterested — Billy worked out some of the anger with a basketball and an old hoop in his shitty new backyard.

He pummelled it against the hard earth, again and again and again, shot it through the ring endlessly and tirelessly _again_ , until he just tossed it over his shoulder and went for a run.

The restlessness crawled up his spine and tried to split it apart. It shivered up his hairline and buzzed every single nerve until Billy barely felt the wind rush past, barely felt the numb of his nose and ears and fingers and feet, barely felt goddamn _anything_ other than this desperation clawing at every single part of him.

He ran straight down the middle of some empty road that curved around the thick forests of Hawkins; a long, stretched grey asphalt like an elastic ring around the town. Mist floated in the distance, and Billy aimed for somewhere inside the mist, his eyes glazed and unseeing.

He heard the car before he saw it, the roar of an engine behind him, and swerved just in time for the blare of a horn.

Billy barked out a laugh. His heartbeat was fast and pounding against the inside of his throat, metallic and harsh. But he threw up the middle finger as some old rust-bucket shook unevenly as it tried to find its feet.

Then the hilarity of it all really hit Billy, and it wasn’t funny at all but that’s what was so _hilarious_.

Billy bent over with hands on his knees, laughed with some kind of wild-hyena glee, laughed loud and high-pitched and unstable.

Because of course he gets to this tiny town in his last year of high-school, a town that maybe 2 scouts visit – which means Billy basically needs to make local fucking news to be anything of interest to the big leagues.

Only not just that, to top it all off, to place the pristine little cherry right in the fucking centre, his _mate_ – a thing he’s never wanted, never imagined, never fantasised about or made space for in his life – lives here and doesn’t want shit to do with him.

Not to give him something to focus on other than escape, or offer a bright spot in the dark and gnarled mess that’s become his life. Nope.

Just to rub it in that Billy is unwanted while he’s already going through a real, _real_ shitty time.

Really. There’s just a beautiful kind of irony there. A poetic sense of injustice to it all.

Billy had never once entertained the idea of having a mate, could have gone his entire life without sparing it a thought. 

But now if the topic ever so much as comes up in conversation, plus once every three months when his rut kicks in, and probably every other fucking day for the rest of his life, all that would flood Billy’s mind is Steve’s face. 

Tears came hot to his eyes and stung the roof of his mouth.

Then something came over Billy.

It was a sensation he felt when his legs were jelly and he could barely crawl out of bed, when shitting hurt so bad he needed to hold his sides and fold in half, when he smelt fresh popcorn at the movie theatre and felt as if he could ravage the whole place like a damn werewolf.

It was a determination: a real, concrete strength. Because Billy had made it this far. He had done it this long. Only a little longer to go. Only a little more. He was nearly there.

Billy started to run. He managed to pick up the pace despite his frozen-stiff legs. His toes were individual icicles in his shoes. His hands had gone purple.

He made it home and collapsed in a heap on his bed.

That night, Billy told himself meeting Steve Harrington was a good thing. Billy would force it to become a good thing.

It would give him resolve. It would give him a fucking reason. It would push him to be better, to prove himself, to be the best mate anyone could ever want so it wouldn’t matter that Steve didn’t want him when everyone else did.

He’d shoot to the fucking top of Hawkins High, of _Hawkins_ itself, of the fucking U.S. of A.

Billy lost his reason along the way a little. Lost any passion and hope and happiness in the idea of college after mom left; all that remained only cold, hard determination without any joy to go with it.

The idea of freedom was so close Billy could almost taste it on his tongue. But it had been so long since he had actually experienced it in any kind, that the notion of being free, utterly and completely free, grew obscure and too hard to imagine.

It was so far away, it was like imagining an alien planet. 

So Billy focused on something a little more believable – packing his bags. Loading them into the Camaro. Spitting dust in Neil’s face and flipping him the finger as he sped off.

Nothing about the image was happy. But Billy burned for it, and that’s all that mattered.

This being, of course, until Steve Harrington takes Billy home from Tina’s Halloween Party.

*

As soon as Steve says he’s on blockers, Billy is too stumped to do anything. 

Steve sighs, comes up close, and hauls Billy’s arm around his shoulders to drag him off on clumsy feet.

To _where_ , Billy doesn’t fucking know. At this point it’s becoming real damn difficult to hold his head up, so it lolls around uselessly and bumps Steve’s ear a couple times. His eyes as focused on the sky as Steve carries him away. His neck is tilted so far back that the stars are all he can see, the only thing that fills his line of vision.

Billy gets a sense of both how far away the stars are, the sense that there is billions and billions of miles of endless space between them, but also how _massive_ the universe is.

He lifts a hand and holds a thumb-pad over one, but in the end it’s Billy who feels small. The empty air between them is unbreachable.

“The hell are you doing?” Steve sounds amused.

“You don’t see the stars in California.” Billy murmurs softly. “They’re.” His mouth hangs open, dumb and speechless. “Beautiful.” 

Billy would have the good grace to feel embarrassed if he were less drunk. As it stands, all he can do is gape uselessly at the sky.

“Come on, Stargazer.” Steve had stopped for a second, Billy realises. Because then they’re moving again and everything is sloshing uncomfortably inside him. Billy feels as if his organs have all hitched a ride on a fucking carnival attraction without him.

“Uh oh.” Steve stops. “I don’t like the look of that face.”

Billy holds up a finger. Then he throws up on the wet grass.

Distantly, Billy can barely fucking believe that Steve missed him on the keg-stand being cool as fuck, but he’s present for _this_.

Once he’s done heaving his guts up, Billy straightens. He wipes the back of his mouth with his jacket sleeve. Knows he’ll regret that in the morning but can’t care now. His vomit is yellow and thin and, when Billy looks down, only lightly splattered across both his boots.

Nowhere near Steve.

“Good?” Steve peers at him cautiously. Because he’s still underneath Billy’s arm and pressed to his side.

Billy nods slowly: once. Then he pulls himself out of Steve’s hold and takes a breath.

“Come on.” Steve tips his head in a forward direction. “My house is just up there. You can go home after a glass of water. I doubt you’d make it to your own if I just left you here.”

Billy meets Steve’s gaze. “Why you being so damn nice to me?” He tries to ignore the way the world is still spinning on its axis.

Steve swallows. Shrugs. Runs a hand through his hair and tosses it around a bit. “Beats me, man. Feeling charitable tonight. That good enough?” He raises his brows at Billy.

Billy want to say, _I’m not a charity case_. Wants to say _, fuck off_. But the alcohol is still buzzing in his veins, and curiosity gets the better of him. It overtakes any bite he might have had.

He wants to know where Steve lives. He wants to see inside Steve’s house.

So Steve walks them down a road and through a patch of trees and Billy’s feet catch on twisted roots _twice_ and makes him look like a stumbling idiot. He’s huffing and cold and irritated and snappish by the time they come through to a clearing and Billy realises no, not a clearing – it’s a fucking _backyard_.

It’s _Steve’s_ backyard. Billy watches Steve make his way past the illuminated neon pool to slide the backdoor open, easy at that.

This is _Steve’s house._ Billy throws his eyes up to it. It looks more like a goddamn mansion.

Steve holds out a hand like a butler.

Billy follows in some kind of trace.

As soon as he steps foot in Steve Harrington’s house, Billy realises what he was hoping for. What he was expecting.

Why he _agreed_ to come in the first place.

Because he scents the air immediately – a familiar habit picked up from a lifetime of being an Alpha, from being invited to somebody’s house and scenting the air on arrival, from being able to sense every little emotion ten times better because of it, from being able to comfortably relax after scenting a friend and their family and their belongings and know that he was in their house – and finds nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

Steve’s home smells sterile and clean. It smells of dust and leather and wood. There’s absolutely no scent.

“This is too weird.” Billy stops at the threshold of Steve’s kitchen.

Because Billy _knows_ Steve is an Alpha. He does. He can’t explain it but he knows it. There’s this surety in his chest, this feeling that Steve radiates dominance and power and _Alpha_.

But Billy’s always associated that feeling with an Alpha’s scent, and without it his instincts are scrambling. They want to tear this whole house down to find some evidence of what his brain is telling him. They want to shove against Steve and hope to find an answer there too. Billy needs to curl his nails into his palm to resist the urge.

“ _Fuck_.” Billy scrubs hands over his face. “This is just too fuckin’ _weird_.”

His nose decides that Steve is Beta, while everything else screams Steve is an Alpha.

That Steve is _Billy’s_ Alpha, even when Billy is already an Alpha and shouldn’t think of another one as his. Shouldn’t _want_ another one to be his.

Everything is fucked up.

“What?” Steve asks, glancing around. The moonlight coming in from the open door throws all his features into high-relief. It throws him into a stark kind of beauty that Billy needs to look away from when it abruptly stings the base of his throat.

 _“This!”_ Billy waves a hand around and focuses his gaze on the bare, empty kitchen to avoid Steve’s ethereal figure at the doorway. “There’s no scent. Nothing is fucking scent-marked. It doesn’t feel like your house; it feels like we’re trespassing on two Betas.”

Two really stuffy Betas, who wipe every single surface down and spritz the air with Febreze every ten seconds.

“Uh.” Billy sees Steve rubs the back of his neck in his periphery, looking around in confusion. “I guess I wouldn’t exactly know.” He poses it as a question but he doesn’t sound unsure.

Instead he sounds – sad.

Billy turns to look at him fully. He finds Steve’s eyes thoughtfully passing over everything: the kitchen counters, the shelf in the corner full of ornamental crockery, the long dining table set with a tablecloth. His head is tilted, posture loose and vulnerable. His face is full of longing.

Billy throat goes suddenly tight, even though the sensation makes no sense.

“You’d know what I mean if you didn’t take blockers.” Billy states.

Then Steve’s expression shuts down: closes up shop. “Yeah.”

Billy swallows. “Why –”

“Sofa is over there, you take a seat and I’ll grab some water.” Steve waves a hand.

Billy, for reasons still unbeknownst to him, obeys instantly. His feet pull him in the direction Steve vaguely gestured to without a second thought.

He catches sight of the clock in the living room; 12:23 AM. He relaxes. 12AM is fine. 1 AM is pushing it, and 2 AM is a busted lip.

He sinks into the plush leather and listens to Steve in the kitchen. Billy feels warmth begin to suffuse the very corners of him at the thought that Steve is filling up a glass of water for him.

He’s taking care of Billy. He’s worried about Billy. He’s acting – maybe subconsciously – like a mate does. Fucking _finally_.

Little does he know, Billy isn’t drunk anymore and hasn’t been since he threw up at Steve’s feet. He rests his head back to try and appear a bit more inebriated, and then takes the glass that Steve passes him clumsily when he comes in.

Steve sits beside him with a juice box, as if he’s quite literally three years old. It’s not cute. It’s _not_.

He bites the straw and starts to drink, so Billy does the same. He finds the ashy, bitter taste of vomit easily, gargles the water around in his mouth to chase the stuff out his teeth, then swallows it all with a loud gulp.

“Gross.” Steve comments once Billy is done. He holds his juice aloft like a wine glass.

Billy flashes him a prize-winning grin, all teeth.

“You done?” Steve asks.

“You’re the one that invited me to your freakin’ house, Harrington.” Billy reminds him.

“Starting to regret the decision, don’t worry.” Steve rubs his forehead with thumb and forefinger, as if Billy’s just once big headache.

Billy laughs loud and fake, just to be an ass. He hopes it wakes up Steve’s prissy parents.

“Much as it pains me to admit, Hargrove – because my heart is well and truly broken – you’re pretty popular now.” Steve explains, flat and sarcastic. “I’m just kinda hoping you’ll give me a break. You know, one act of human decency sparks another.” He swivels a hand, something he does a lot.

Billy blinks. Right. Sure.

He’s not worried about Billy. Of course he’s not worried about Billy.

Because Billy is a goddamn idiot.

Billy swallows the sting with a harsh sneer. “The fuck’s this then? A bribe?” He lifts his glass of water. “Shitty fucking –”

“Huh? No.” Steve frowns. “I – okay. Look, I’m going through a bit of a rough patch with everything, and right now,” Steve clears his throat, “Well. My girlfriend is kinda the only person talking to me. Even then, I get the feeling she doesn’t exactly enjoy it.”

That stumps Billy. That really silences the fuck out of him.

“So. Yeah.” Steve finishes lamely, looks down at his carton. “I guess you’d be doing me a solid if you back up with the trash talk. Maybe cut me some slack in the hallways, maybe people see that and …” Steve shrugs. “I dunno. This was fucking stupid.”

Billy studies Steve for a beat. Studies the defeated line of his body, slumped into the sofa.

“Sure.” Billy decides.

Steve blinks. He looks at Billy. “Sure?”

“Yeah, sure. Got any gum?”

Steve blinks at the sudden 180 change in conversation, but fishes some out his pocket and offers it to Billy. Billy pops it in; cracks the hard shell and grins all obnoxious as Steve watches. Steve’s eyes stray to Billy’s mouth for a second before they snap up to his face.

“Yeah?” Steve aims for a smile: it falls a little flat with uncertainty but the sentiment warms Billy all the fucking same.

“Ya, why not?” Billy reaches over and does something he’s wanted to do since he saw Steve Harrington’s Perfect Face.

He fists a hand in Steve’s thick hair and tugs. Just a little. Just gently. But hard enough that Steve feels it.

Steve splutters, face bursting with colour. He bats Billy’s hand away. “The _hell?”_ Steve smoothes his hair back.

The after-shocks of it all in Billy’s hand tingles against his skin. It’s as soft as it looks.

“Hey, if people saw me do that in the hallway, you’d be golden.” Billy pokes his tongue out the side of his mouth with a smile.

It’s a weak excuse, if anything, but Billy couldn’t go a second longer without doing it. Not when such a pristine opportunity presents itself like that. Not when Steve is sat inches away on the sofa, asking Billy to be _nice_ to him, of all fucking things.

It’s sweet enough to stick a dagger right through Billy’s chest and out the other side. It’s just the right amount of vulnerable and still cocky somehow. Billy doesn’t even think Steve does it on purpose; doesn’t even think Steve’s _aware_ that he’s doing it.

But the barely hopeful shine in his dark eyes, the soft smile that played at the edges of his mouth just there, the whole ‘ _this is fucking stupid’_ – yeah, come bulldoze Billy over with a truck and he’d probably tell you he preferred it to this.

“If you do _that_ in the hallways, everyone’ll think I’m another one of your lackeys.” Steve snorts.

“Hey.” Billy twists his torso around to better look at Steve. “What’s so bad about that?”

Steve gives him a deadpan look. “Come on Billy. You know they’re your little lap dogs, they come running if you so much as snap your fingers.”

Billy leans closer, face deadly serious. “Yeah? You above that?”

Steve falls quiet as Billy breathes centimetres away from his face.

“You too good for anybody’s lap?” Billy cocks a brow.

Steve swallows, the long line of his throat moving. “I’m.” His voice is a rasp, his eyes like velvet in the dark as they caress Billy’s face.

Billy leans back with a barked laugh, hoping to mask the pounding of his heart and the way it makes his hands tremble.

Getting up close and personal to Steve Harrington is its own drug: it should come with a health warning.

But he doesn’t want to disturb the tentative peace that’s sprung between them. Especially not by bridging the gap and mashing their mouths together, yanking Steve into his lap and showing Steve exactly what he means. Getting close is stupid enough.

“How – how’d you do that?”

Billy pauses in fluffing up his hair. “Huh?”

Steve’s face is beetroot again, the way it goes when they’re in school and Billy is teasing him. Billy can see the racing of Steve’s pulse as it beats against the side of his throat. He wants to feel it underneath his tongue.

“Do – like that.” Steve flaps a hand towards Billy.

Billy stares, uncomprehending. “Do what?”

Steve huffs in frustration. “Come on, Billy. You know what I’m talking about. Is it an Alpha thing?”

“You’re gonna have to be more specific.”

“When you get all in someone’s personal space, make them go all light-headed and shit.”

Billy feels his eyes bug. “ _Light-headed?”_

Absolute, complete joy pops in his chest like a bottle of champagne.

Steve’s face is only growing redder. “I – you know what I _mean_ , it makes you go all weak and you can’t move and it’s like a trance, right?”

Billy face splits apart in some open-mouthed beam. He’s gaping while grinning. He’s never made this face before in his life. Then he makes a noise, a startled kind of squawk. It comes out totally unbidden.

“Are you – are you for real?” Billy manages to force through the beam.

“This is a thing! I’ve seen Alphas do it!” Steve sits up knife-straight and balls his hands.

Here’s the snag: it sort of is a thing. Billy does it all the time, and sometimes he does it without even meaning to. He uses his body to tower over people, to posture and pose and demonstrate to another Alpha that he’s stronger in mind and body. To illustrate to Betas why he’s so far superior. To entice an Omega with the promise of security and strength.

He’s pretty sure he tried it on Steve at Tina’s party.

But it wouldn’t work on somebody who’s taking blockers. He didn’t know Steve was on them at the time, but now he knows it makes this all the sweeter.

Because nobody describes it as a _trace_. Nobody calls it _light-headedness._ People call it a forceful submission, a battle of the wills, a frustrating defeat to unwillingly submit to another Alpha, or to challenge one as a Beta and be thoroughly taken out.

And if Billy didn’t know any better, if Billy really has sunk right into one of his wildest dreams, he’d almost say that it sounds like Steve _likes it._ As though Steve has some kind of Omega reaction to it.

“You’re serious?” Billy leans forward, one hand going behind Steve’s shoulder to grip the sofa.

Steve leans away obviously. “I know you’re doing it, cut it out.” His throat bobs.

Billy licks his teeth and wets his lips. “I ain’t doing anything. Hey, how long you been on blockers?”

Steve’s eyes dart every which way. “Three years, why?”

Billy.

Billy blinks. “You what?”

He expected Steve to say a couple months. They’re not made to be on for that long. They’re a temporary fix for a couple health problems.

Nobody takes them voluntarily. Nobody takes them for _years_.

“Yeah, since I hit puberty and became Alpha.”

“What the fuck?” Billy barks. “What do you do during your ruts? Stop them?”

“What?” Steve asks.

“What do you do during ruts?” Billy repeats.

“What’s a rut?”

Steve’s face is open and expectant.

Billy laughs loud. “Ha!”

Steve’s gaze is even and steady.

Billy feels the smile drop off his mouth. “Steve.”

“What?” Steve asks.

“That’s a joke.” Billy states.

“What is?” Steve frowns. His eyes cloud with confusion. “What do you mean?”

“You … you _know_ what a rut is.” Billy says slowly.

“No I don’t.”

Billy stares some more. “Can you stop fuckin’ around.”

“I’m not! I don’t know what you’re talking about! What the fuck is a rut?” Steve throws an arm out.

“I am not about to believe that you don’t have a clue what a rut is.” Billy tells him, matter-of-fact. “A _rut_. An Alpha’s rut. Every six months like fucking clockwork. An Alpha has a rut, an Omega has a heat.”

Steve’s eyes are wide, white. “Billy, please explain what the fuck you’re talking about because –”

“Oh my God.” Billy stands up. “Oh my God.” He shoves hands into his hair because he doesn’t know what else to do.

“Is this a big deal? Is it like a period? I don’t want a period Billy, please God –” Steve looks grey around the edges, as if he’s about to cry or throw up or both.

“Jesus Fuck!” Billy shouts. “Hawkins is fucked up! How can they not have told you about this! Christ, Steve, you must have read it in a book or heard it on TV –”

“Billy.” Steve stands up as well. “Explain or I’m gonna.” He searches around, clearly doesn’t find anything, and settles for throwing helplessly lost-puppy eyes at Billy.

“Okay. Okay.” Billy starts, nonsensical. He walks a few paces. “Okay okay okay. It’s. Okay. Don’t freak out.”

“What?” Steve whines. “You can’t just say that before you’ve told me –”

“It’s your mating cycle.” Billy blurts. “It’s just part of a normal, totally normal, totally healthy, mating cycle.”

Steve still looks utterly clueless.

“Steve, Jesus, help me out here.” Billy deflates, scrubs his face. “It’s nothing _serious_ , right, it’s. It’s five or six days where you’re horny. Got it?”

Steve blinks. “That’s it?”

“Steve.” Billy states, finally meets Steve’s eyes. “I’ve been having them since I was fourteen. They’re no piece of fucking cake, okay? They’re meant to help find your mate and I’m guessing – pass on your genes and make babies and continue on the Alpha line. But to do that it’s gotta get you real fuckin’ motivated. First couple days aren’t so bad, you just feel kinda restless and like being touched is nails down a chalkboard and everyone is in your space. Then the last couple days hit like a freight train and you just gotta curl up in bed and ride it out.”

Steve’s eyes are wide, face white.

“Look.” Billy tries. “It happens the start of spring then again in winter, twice a year and that’s it. It’s not as bad at it sounds. It’s not as bad when you’re fucking _used_ to it.”

“Sounds pretty shit, I think I’ll stick to not knowing anything about it.” Steve states.

“Woah, woah, woah.” Billy holds up a hand, takes a step closer. “Hold up. You don’t seriously – Steve, you _need_ to have one.”

Steve blinks with such a force Billy can almost hear his freaking eyelids. “Come again?”

“I’m just gonna go ahead and suppose you’ve been having some difficulties in the bedroom.” Billy says with a cocked brow.

Steve’s head becomes a sun-dried tomato. “Wh – that’s the _blockers_ , the dampen – you know, actually, I’m not talking to you about this.” He turns around and crosses his arms like a little kid.

“Steve,” Billy barks a laugh, “Forgetting bout the fact that you need to be in a rut to have kids – just so you know, if you want any then it’ll be impossible without one – you can’t stay on blockers forever. And you’re sure as hell not meant to be on them for fucking _years_."

Steve turns back and looks at him.

"It not normal to stop your ruts." Billy continues. "It’s not freakin’ healthy. You’re insides are gonna get all screwed up. And you’re not a Beta. Sure they can fuck each other every day of the year, but you’re an Alpha. Any Alpha would tell you unless they’re in rut, they’re not all that interested. Which I’m gonna take a wild guess and say you can relate to.”

Steve stares at Billy. Just stares, unmoving.

“Might wanna buckle up, Amigo.” Billy steps closer and slaps Steve’s arm quick. “Cause I dunno which doctor you’ve been seeing, but they sure as shit don’t know anything about Alphas. I’d flush those blockers down the toilet soon, if I were you.”

Steve’s mouth drops open, just a little, his front teeth visible as his eyes rove over Billy’s face; no doubt looking for any trace of a lie.

“I better be off.” Billy says, and crosses over to the door. He turns around and gives Steve a two-fingered salute. “Good luck.”

And Billy walks home with a grin and his blood thrumming in every single one of his veins, because he’s pretty sure he just convinced Steve to come off his medication. Which means that terrible, god-awful smell will stop. Which means that Steve will smell like Alpha; will be able to smell other Alphas. Will be able to smell _Billy_.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am battering this story out at the speed of light! But it seems lockdown + harringrove is proving to be a motivating combination.
> 
> Mentions of a restricted diet in here! Billy is on a diet for his training regimen.

Billy sneaks in the way he always does, through the open window and into an empty room.

His bedsheets could’ve been put in the freezer for an hour and still wouldn’t be as stiff and cold as they are when Billy slides in-between them.

His teeth chitter, skin coming up in gooseflesh so bad all the hairs on his legs stand to attention like tiny little soldiers.

Billy rubs his thighs and his forearms and curses the fact that he won’t get the recommended eight hours sleep – which is bare fucking minimum – and will probably pay for it with some dumb cursed luck like tripping in practise tomorrow or losing an eighth of an inch of growth for the rest of his life.

Yeah. Billy fucking thinks about these things.

He closes his eyes to the memory of Steve Harrington’s face, feels it warm him from behind his eyelids.

Billy falls sleep instantly, a hard-wired habit he’s trained into himself, and wakes up with a forceful jerk at the first rays of sunlight.

His head feels like a leaden weight and has developed its own heartbeat. His mouth tastes like ash and garbage juice.

Billy groans, peels his eyes open, and then frowns down at himself. Frowns at his leather jacket over a half-buttoned skirt and Levi jeans.

He’s not even unlaced his boots.

And then Billy grimaces at the smell emanating from somewhere in his room, before he sniffs his collar and realises its him. He’s emanating a smell.

It’s vomit. He smells like vomit. Fucking _vomit_.

What the fuck happened?

Billy strips everything off and finds the source: tragically, turns out to be his fucking jacket and boots. He clearly threw up on them.

Billy rolls all his clothes up in a little ball and walks to the bathroom with them held over his privates – because despite it being ass o’clock in the morning, Billy has made the same mistake one too many times of assuming nobody is awake.

He drops the ball on the floor, switches on the shower and steps in instantly while the water is still ice.

He holds his head under the stream so his hair hangs down, closes his eyes against the pounding of his skull, and wonders why the fuck he drank so much last night.

He only planned to go for an hour. Have a couple drinks, make a couple more friends. It wasn’t even that freakin’ interesting –

 _Steve_.

Billy’s eyes pop open.

Steve was at the party. Steve found Billy flat out in the backyard. Steve took Billy back to his place, and gave him water, because – fuck.

Because Billy _threw up_ at Steve’s feet.

Steve …

Billy squints. Something happened with Steve. They talked. Steve told him something …

Billy stands stiff for a few moments, before he decides it’s way too fucking early for this. He tips his head back, pushes all his hair away and lets the water hit his face. He gargles some around his rotten mouth, spits it out, and then gets to scrubbing the smell of garbage off his skin.

Billy dresses in sweatpants and an old t-shirt, pads downstairs and finds his protein powder on the top shelf. He towels his hair dry and makes it up with tap water, gives it a shake, and heads out the door.

Hawkins is butt-fuck cold. Billy can only do a light jog otherwise risk spraining something that’s not properly warmed up. He gulps down his shitty tasting drink like he does every morning, quick and practised, and he’s halfway around the town before he wakes up.

He blinks, suddenly awake, and takes a sharp inhale of Hawkins air.

Steve’s never had a rut.

He doesn’t even know what a rut is. He’s been on blockers for three years.

Three _fucking years._

Billy stops in the middle of the street. It’s maybe six in the morning, because nothing is open and his breath blows white clouds in front of his face. He’s abruptly glad of it, because Billy is stood still and staring at a spot on the concrete pavement.

What kind of shitty, fucked-up place lets an Alpha stay on blockers for three years? No pauses in-between, no breaks for a rut?

Better yet: what kind of psychotically unstable town lets an Alpha believe there’s no such _thing_ as a rut?

Unless … unless nobody in Hawkins knows about ruts, because Steve is the only Alpha.

Which would be pretty fucking rare, but not completely impossible. In California, Alphas aren’t exactly dime a dozen but there’s still at least a handful in every high school. Omegas are probably a little less common, but they still _exist_.

To think that Steve’s the first Alpha to be born here, that there’s only ever been Betas before, that nobody every bothered to update the sex-ed leaflets and just tailored everything to their knowledge on what suited them – it just. It can’t be. It’s too impossible.

But it’s the only explanation.

A sudden, foreign anger seeps inside Billy. It’s an anger at Hawkins for letting Steve scramble around on blockers with no clue about the long term effects, letting him believe whatever the fuck because it doesn’t matter to them.

The image of his face flashes in Billy’s mind, his expression when Billy said, ‘ _if you want kids, you need a rut’_. His wide-eyed stare that spoke of total ignorance and fear.

His flush-faced embarrassment and the way he said, _‘the blockers dampen your – you know, I’m not talking about this with you’._

He wonders how often Steve’s asked a question or queried something about his instincts and been totally shut down.

Wonders if Steve is so familiar with avoiding the topic that he just automatically clamps up about it whenever anyone asks.

The low simmering anger floats just out of reach; Billy breathes through it as he jogs. Eventually it fades to a dull sensation, one that Billy can shove aside for now.

He can’t use it now. He’ll see Steve at school, they’ll talk about it then. He can use it then, he can show Steve just how fucked up everything is.

Billy comes full circle in his run, gets home to find Max munching on some cereal and slouched on the sofa.

Billy reaches over and yanks her ponytail hard on his way past. She chokes on her cereal and retaliates by flicking some milk at him with a spoon. Billy dodges easily and holds the middle finger up over his shoulder.

They’re not great, yeah. But they’re not awful either.

They were forced together three years ago when Billy was a scrawny, pimply fourteen year old and Max was a literal child. There’s not much they have in common, and not many opportunities for them to figure out the shit that they do.

The only ways Billy sees Max is dropping her off and picking her up at school, as well as the fifteen minutes of awkward silence over the cramped dinner table where neither of them speak.

But Billy isn’t Neil. He will never be Neil.

Because of course they fight and of course they bitch and of course Billy cranks up the radio to a deafening pitch when Max is late; of course she retaliates by slamming the car door so hard his Camaro rattles.

Of course Billy points the butt of his cigarette in her face whenever he wants to drive his message home; of course Max huffs and rolls her eyes and crosses her arms over her chest.

Because she doesn’t lower her gaze or nod and call him ‘Sir’. She doesn’t submit to him; he doesn’t make her.

Because she bites back and she argues and she shouts.

Because she knows she can.

It’s not ideal, and it never will be. They’ll never be brother and sister, and that’s just the way it goes. Billy never wanted extra baggage added onto his already shitty family – planned on getting _out_ of it and finding one of his own eventually.

And Max has made it perfectly clear she feels the same. So there's nothing much else to say on the matter.

Billy strips out of his workout clothes, lays them over his open windowsill and lets the air dry them as he heads for another shower.

He makes this one quick: can already feel the accusation swing his way for the water bill. He brushes his teeth and finger-combs his wet hair, manages to dig out some clean jeans and a shirt, and is dressed and ready within twenty minutes.

Hunger gnaws on his insides: Billy ignores it and cranks up the heat in the Camaro. He kicks his feet up and waits for Max outside.

He’s long learned that Neil Hargrove isn’t a morning person, and if he doesn’t see Billy’s face for the entirety of it then it’s usually better for everyone involved.

He’ll catch Billy after school, though: pause him with a hand on his chest and a, ‘What time you get in last night?’

Billy will answer with an honest, ‘It was a quarter to one, Sir.’

Because Neil holds eye-contact for ten seconds and Billy will lower his gaze if he’s lying. Because though Neil is a Beta, Billy’s instincts scream for him to back down.

He smokes in the Camaro to dull the sharp bite of hunger, reads a little more of _Jane Eyre_ for English. He only just got to the good shit before the passenger door opens and Max throws herself inside.

“Jeez, it stinks in here.” She says instantly.

Billy dogears his page and shoves it in the glove compartment. “Oh my, whatever shall I do?” He starts in a high, nasally voice. “Miss Maxine isn’t partial to her horse and carriage today.”

Max just rolls the window down and ignores him.

*

Steve isn’t at school. Billy thinks, okay, alright, this is fine. It’s first period. He’ll come.

By lunch, it’s clear that Steve isn’t coming.

“The fuck are you eating?” Tommy asks.

Billy glances up from his Tupperware dish of brown rice and dry chicken. “The fuck does it look like?” Billy tilts his plastic container to give a better view.

It fills a hole, sure, but it barely tastes of anything. He’s been eating it too many years in a row now. Billy is pretty sure somebody could be shovelling this into his mouth when he’s asleep and he wouldn’t so much as bat an eyelid; just chew and swallow, rinse and repeat.

“Do you make it?” Carol scrunches her face up. “Why not just eat at the canteen?”

Sometimes, their idiocy makes Billy want to pinch the bridge of his nose and close his eyes.

“Because the food here sucks.” Billy manages get those words out as politely as he can, somehow resisting the urge to both close his eyes and rub his temples.

They’re useful, he tells himself. He needs them. He needs _someone_ to sit at lunch with. He can’t exactly sit by himself and then pummel everyone when it comes gym class. He’d be resented. People would talk. _Teachers_ would talk; then coaches would notice.

And then when the scouts come he’d be shoved to the side-lines and all his hard work sabotaged because he wasn’t a team player and the Coach didn’t like the fact that Billy took all the spotlight from their favourite students.

No. Billy needs to make nice. Billy needs to prove himself part of this school: representative of this school.

Much as it fucking _pains him_ , because Tommy and Carol seem to be the only ones who can stomach a big bad Alpha from the city without pissing their pants.

Billy gets looks in the hallway as if he gobbles kids for dinner.

He wonders what Steve eats at the canteen.

He wonders who Steve sits with nowadays.

“Do you need some special diet?” Carol asks, and pops some bubble-gum. “You know, for being an athlete. No carbs no sugar?”

Billy blinks. He looks her up and down. “Yeah.”

Carol purses her mouth. “That’s shit.”

Billy gives her a close-mouthed smile. “Kinda fucking is, yup.”

*

Steve doesn’t come to school the next day. Or the day after that.

It’s Thursday before he rocks up. A full four days later.

Billy is climbing out the Camaro when he senses Steve, senses the prickle on the nape of his neck and the awareness that tells him Steve’s here.

He whips his head around to find Steve barging past the morning crowd towards Billy.

Billy closes his car door slowly, leans against it with a devil-may-care attitude, even though his pulse his racing and his blood is singing _SteveSteveSteve_ with every step he takes.

Billy grins wide. “Am I dreaming, or is that –”

“Billy.” Steve charges right on up to him and stops about an inch away. “You were right. About everything. Fucking _everything_.”

“Uh.” Billy blinks; Steve’s proximity is kind of turning him loopy.

Thankfully, Steve turns away and shoves both hands into his hair. He’s a mirror of Billy’s pose, when Steve very seriously and very genuinely told Billy he had no idea what a rut was.

Max gets out the Camaro without a word. She eyes them up for a beat, eyebrows sky-high.

Billy shoes her away with his cigarette and she gets on her board and skates off.

Which leaves them alone in the parking lot.

Billy watches Steve pace in a small circle, his eyes flitting every which way, clearly trying and failing to articulate his thoughts.

“Hey.” Billy kicks off the Camaro and opens the door. “You wanna skip class?”

Steve finally stops pacing and looks at Billy. Then, without a word, he goes around to the passenger side and climbs in.

*

Billy drives with the hum of the radio spitting out some rock music and Steve’s leg bouncing dangerously close to his, until Steve says, “Take a left here.”

Billy does.

They rumble around some gravel track before a quarry opens up before them, and Billy cuts the engine.

Steve gets out in silence.

Billy blinks and follows him, only to find Steve sat on the hood of his Camaro, looking out at the empty water.

Billy sidles on up and crosses his arms, leaning back against his hood as well.

“Can you believe.” Steve snorts, the sound harsh. “My fucking parents.”

He stops there though, exhales a hard gust of air.

Billy is quiet. He can feel the tension radiating off Steve, feel the way that Steve needs silence to think.

“They. They were going to tell me on my 18th birthday. Had it all figured out. Oh, hey, Steve, you know those meds we’ve been feeding you your whole life? Yeah, you need to stop them now. And have a rut. But don’t worry, we’ve got a nice little Omega lined up for you. Comes from a nice family. Sure you’ll get along swell.”

Billy feels sick. He turns his head to stare at Steve. Steve, whose shoulders are tight and his teeth gritted.

“Sure it’ll be a fucking _mutually_ beneficial alliance. Sure it’ll be fine you’ve never had a rut before. Sure it’s not totally unhealthy you were meant to start having them _fourteen years old._ Sure there’s nothing!” Steve stands up and kicks the dirt. “Fucking! Bad! About _that!”_ He reaches down, grabs a fistful of gravel and throws it.

Billy watches in silence. He swallows, but his saliva is gum.

“Steve –” He tries.

“I went to the doctor myself. I explained everything. And yeah, it’s bad.”

Terror grips Billy like a tight fist around his throat. “What –”

“I might not be able to have a rut.” Steve says, his back to Billy. “I might not be able to have kids.”

“Steve.” Billy steps close and turns him around with hands on his shoulders. “Jesus Christ. Stop taking them. Just stop taking them!”

He knows Steve still is, because that strange, anaesthetic, _wrong_ smell that follows Steve is still all over him. Nancy barely covers it anymore – and Billy realises why Steve lathers himself in her scent, because it’s probably better than smelling _that_ on yourself.

Steve laughs, hollow, his eyes everywhere but Billy’s. “I can’t just stop cold turkey. I need to reduce them, or whatever. But don’t worry, I’m not staying on them a second longer than I need to.”

“Why were you on them in the first place?” Billy barks.

Steve meets Billy’s eyes. He opens his mouth, and then shrugs Billy’s hands off him and scrubs his face.

Billy blinks, until Steve goes to sit on the Camaro again. He looks at Steve, both hands splayed on the hood, head tipped back. After a second he follows.

“My parents are both Betas.” Steve starts, voice soft. Despite the sunlight that plays across Steve’s face, touching his hair and his nose, it’s still chilly. Billy wraps his jacket tighter around himself. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be used to Hawkins’ shitty weather.

Steve’s just wearing a sweater, all fluffy cashmere, a pair of Levi’s and some sneakers. He’s not wearing anything underneath the sweater; Billy catches sight of the hollow of his throat as he swallows.

Billy curls his hands tighter around his lapels.

“When I hit puberty and you know, got assigned Alpha, they just.” Steve waves a hand. “I don’t think they knew what to do. I don’t think they were exactly _pleased_ , you could say.”

“What’s not to like?” Billy grunts. 

Steve glances at him with the barest hint of a smile, just a tug at the edge of his mouth.

Pride still glows in Billy’s chest, strong and steady and more rewarding than anything.

Billy is about to smile back when Steve looks away.

“Well.” Steve huffs at the quarry. “They didn’t see it that way. It was … weird. I was getting a lot of attention – people would stare and stuff. There’s not exactly many Alphas around Hawkins. And.”

Steve pauses and itches at his chin. There’s some wispy hair there he must have missed shaving. But he clears his throat, hesitant.

“What?” Billy frowns.

“I’m.” Steve tosses his fringe with his fingers, a nervous gesture. He glances up at Billy. “Look, don’t laugh.”

Billy raises a brow.

“I’m …” Steve rubs at his nape. “Kind of a powerful Alpha.”

Billy stares. He waits for the punchline, but nothing comes. “You what?”

Steve’s face is glowing red, that familiar warmth to his cheeks. “I’m a pretty powerful Alpha, okay? I’m not a normal one. It’s a thing, or something. I don't know. Doctors said it was fine, it wasn’t anything bad, but. I could pretty much do or say or – _get_ anything I wanted. After I made my dad submit, well. They thought blockers were the best way to go.”

That whole fucking sentence would take a week to unpack, but something pulls Billy up short. “Wait. You made your dad submit?”

Steve’s flush gets darker. “Yeah.”

“Why?”

“I wanted another cookie.” Steve says.

Billy stares. And then he howls, bent-double with it, absolutely buckled at the notion that a baby-faced Steve Harrington made his own _father_ submit to him.

Over a **_cookie_**.

He hears Steve join in with a light chuckle, louder and louder until he’s just as affected, until he slaps his thigh with a wheeze.

“And that’s why – _that’s_ the reason –” Billy manages to choke.

“This was after a long series of events.” Steve hiccups through laughter. “I was basically running the house. I didn’t even have a bedtime.”

And that just sets Billy off even more, into another round of roaring laughter that hurts his throat, his cheeks, the back of his goddamn _skull_. It feels like his abs are going to break. He clutches his sides and gasps brokenly when it gets too much. Billy literally feels his _vision_ start to blur. He doesn’t think he’s ever laughed this hard in his life.

He leans against the Camaro to catch his breath, hears Steve’s laughter start to soften as well until they’re just panting next to one another.

“That.” Billy wipes his eye. “Is the goddamn _funniest_ thing I’ve ever heard.”

Steve laughs again, broad and big-humoured. It sets Billy alight all over.

“Wasn’t at the time, trust me.” Steve states, but there’s a grin on his face now and that’s all that matters.

Billy lets himself grin back. Steve’s expression softens so much that Billy digs in his jeans around for a lighter and a pack of smokes for the excuse to stop looking at him.

“So, the doctors never mentioned a rut or anything when you started blockers?” Billy asks while he’s digging, so it doesn’t seem odd. “Seems pretty shitty, if you ask me.”

“Uh. Not exactly.” Steve rubs his neck. “Turns out my parents asked them not to say. About the ruts. Or anything. They wanted to tell me when I turned eighteen. Had this whole plan or something, set me up with some respectable girl. I guess they just didn’t want to deal with me in rut, when regular me could make them do anything anyway. Supposedly, it doesn’t cause that much damage if you don’t have one till you’re eighteen. Well.” Steve’s hand falls into his lap. “Maybe that would’ve been the case. But I needed twice the dose, cause normal blockers didn’t cut it.”

Billy had been in the middle of lighting a cigarette, but he stops to stare at Steve.

Steve catches his look and sighs. “Look. My mom’s pretty torn up about it. She’s been crying for two days. And my dad is threatening some lawsuit against the physician. They didn’t – none of us _knew_.”

“Didn’t they check before they gave you a freakin’ double dose?” Billy barks.

Steve grimaces. “Uh. No. we just kept upping the tablets.”

Billy slumps against his Camaro. The weight of the situation begins to settle.

“So.” Billy closes his eyes and holds up a hand. “Just to get this straight. They knew they were suppressing your rut, but thought when you turned 18 you’d be fine to have one anyway? Just, flick the light switch and the rut’s back on?”

Steve sighs, long and slow. “I guess. I went to the doctor a couple days ago and they did some tests. All my levels are fine, I should be alright to have a rut. It’s just a possibility, that everything might not be. That ... I might not be able to. And we won’t know until I’m off the blockers for good.”

Billy just sits, stumped.

“Look.” Steve turns to him this time, but there’s a new edge to his voice, a little frayed. “Billy, you need to help me. The doctor had to bring out a fucking _manual_ when I told her. I just sat there for ten minutes while she read about it all. There’s no Alphas here. Nobody knows anything. You need to help me.”

“What you want _me_ to do?” Billy asks, but not to be snide or sarcastic. He genuinely has no idea what Steve wants him to do.

“Just – explain it to me! Tell me what the fuck I’m meant to do during a rut. Tell me what I’m meant to do during the _lead-up_ to a rut. Tell me how to control everything when I’m an Alpha again, how to stop making people submit to me or _stare_ at me. Just – _please_.” Steve’s eyes are wide and frantic.

Billy lifts his cigarette and takes a drag. He sucks slow and exhales when he feels like it. “And what’s in it for me, Stevie?” He asks eventually. 

Steve blinks. Then he clicks his fingers of one hand and makes a gun, like a true dork. “Money. I have money.”

Billy grimaces. Taking cash off his mate would leave a bad taste in his mouth for a decade. Not that Billy would have through twice about doing that before; not that he would have even cared where money came before he met them.

But he has met them. He knows he has.

“Nah. I mean what can _you_ do for _me,_ Steve?” Billy leans close, holds his cigarette away from his lips and gives Steve a slow smile. Surely Steve can't misunderstand him now. Surely this is Level 1 flirting. 

Steve frowns, confused. He chews on his thumbnail. “Oh! I could tutor you!” He flashes another smile, as though this is the answer.

Jesus Christ.

He's not getting it.

Billy tries very hard to school his expression and not groan in complete frustration. And then he hears what Steve just said, and realises tutoring might be even better.

“Yeah? What in?” He asks.

Steve’s expression dims. Clearly he hadn’t thought about that. “Well I kinda suck at math. I’m not bad at biology. English?” He tries hopefully. “I can do English.”

Billy can do English. Billy has absolutely no trouble doing English. But he tilts his head, as if considering it, and then sticks out a palm. “Deal.”

The beam Steve aims at him is worth it.

And Billy has just doubled his time with his mate. It is, for the first time in his life, a win-win.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alrighty! So I was not planning on going in this direction, but then I discovered that the Duffer brothers actually had a plot-line for Steve and Billy in the show that got scrapped. 
> 
> Of course we can't know what it might have been, they could have become friends or they could have become even worse rivals, but it's safe to say at least that in a parallel world, this chapter is actually canon (some of it, maybe)
> 
> Content warning! A little violence herein.

“I’ve just gotta ask.” Billy starts, before they leave the quarry and head back to school. “How come it never cropped up in conversation once? How come you never heard the word ‘rut’ or ‘heat’ or – freaking ‘cycle’ for that matter?” Billy flicks his cigarette away and raises his eyebrows. “ _Once?”_

“Honestly, I have no idea.” Steve states, plain and simple. “I think everyone just skirted around the topic cause they figured I knew. I mean, sure, one time Hopper asked how I was doing cause it was ‘that time of the year’.”

“Hopper?” Billy asks. “The _Chief?”_

“The very one.”

“Asked you how your _rut_ went?” Now that shit doesn’t sit right with Billy. That doesn’t sit right at all.

“I just thought he was talking about exam season!” Steve windmills his arms again. “I think I said it coulda went better, and he –”

Steve stops: meets Billy’s wide eyes, and then his own widen. “Ohhhh.”

“What did he do?” Billy can feel the grin of his life forming.

“He said he knew people that could help, and I … told him I already had a private tutor.”

Steve covers his face with his hands while Billy throws his head back with a laugh. Steve separates his fingers to peer at Billy through them. It’s too cute. It really is too _motherfucking_ cute, Billy draws the line at that.

He shoves Steve for an excuse to touch him; Steve’s arms windmill like a cartoon before he steadies himself and kicks Billy’s shin.

“It’s not my fault!” Steve barks. “Nobody just comes out and _says it_ in Hawkins! Christ!”

“Nobody should need to!” Billy counters. “It’s like somebody saying, ‘Hey, you know the sky is blue, right?’” Billy points a finger up. “’Just wanted to check!’”

Steve groans and presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. “I’m the biggest dumbass on Earth.”

Billy laughs lightly and jostles their shoulders together. “Anyway, who the fuck would Chief know that could help?”

“I think he meant a doctor.” Steve says, and then bites his lip. “I hope he meant a doctor.”

They laugh again. It feels easy, natural.

It feels right.

It hasn’t escaped Billy’s notice that something suspiciously like _friendship_ is blossoming between them, and while Billy mostly relishes in it, he realises he’ll need to rein it in at some point if he wants a chance with Steve.

It won’t do any good if Steve starts to see him as some Alpha comrade in arms. If Billy’s firmly and neatly slotted into the position of ‘helpful and platonic friend’.

And yes, Billy refuses to acknowledge the fact that his sole focus for the past four years of his life has been his training and his grades and being so good – so unfathomably, indisputably good at everything – that it would earn him a small fortune to begin a new life with.

Refuses to acknowledge that trying to squeeze a new goal in-between all that is probably a disaster waiting to happen.

He’s read the books. He’s watched the interviews of athletes who scored with the big leagues. He’s done the research, he’s put in the work. He’s has the early mornings and the early nights, he’s sacrificed his appetite and his spare time and his body and his mind and anything else that he could possibly fucking offer.

Steve Harrington should terrify him. Steve Harrington stands to destroy everything Billy has built just by his mere existence. Steve is Billy’s ruin.

Because Billy is barely aware of the point in this conversation where he went from thinking, ‘ _don’t let Harrington make you lose focus on the goal, come on Hargrove’_ , to, _‘it wouldn’t be that bad, helping Steve with this, it wouldn’t take up too much time.’_

Because some treacherous, self-destructive thing inside Billy tells him that he could have both. If plays his cards right, he could have Steve and he could have his scholarship.

If he puts in a little extra effort, gave up an hour or two or sleep, he could spend time with Steve: enough time for Steve to slowly realise that they could be mates before he stops his blockers and is faced with the reality of that.

Billy can just push training back a little later.

A small part of Billy tells him he’s utterly fucked. Because as soon as the seed is planted in his head, it takes root and starts growing.

Billy could have both.

And then, just like that, he wants both. Painfully, agonisingly, Billy wants them both.

“You _do_ know a little more about it now, though?” Billy asks with a teasing smirk. “The birds and the bees?” He knocks his knee against Steve’s where they’re both leaning on the Camaro.

Steve goes deadly quiet.

“Steve?” Billy tilts his neck down.

“I couldn’t find a book in the library that wasn’t some sort of erotic novel …” Steve begins.

And Billy really needs to laugh again, loud and sharp.

Jesus Christ, Steve Harrington’s life is a sit-com.

Billy never thought about his mate. Not once. He wasn’t going to spend pointless years in search of something there was a massive probability of never finding. He knew people killed themselves over that shit.

Didn’t particularly feel like adding to the growing list of things he wished he had, as well.

But if the topic was ever brought into conversation, was mentioned on TV, Billy always imagined his mate would be like him. Self-assured and smart and capable.

Figured they would be going about their life, happy and healthy and carefree.

It helped when Billy did that. When he imagined that they were fine, and would be fine without him.

And when Billy thought about his type, the sort of person he was usually attracted to, they were more or less like Billy as well. Maybe they had a couple piercings, wore a bit of leather. They liked the same music, had the same kind of attitude.

Now, when Billy thinks of his mate, it’s the image of preppy, helpless, dorky, and shockingly _innocent_ Steve Harrington, searching the spines of books in the library for an insight into what a rut is, picking up an erotica and flooding with colour, then scrambling to put it back as if it was hot.

That’s all that comes to mind.

Billy doesn’t know why it’s so much better. It just is.

“Seems I’m gonna have to deflower ya, Harrington.” Billy grins wide, watches that tell-tale flush work its way up Steve’s throat, even as he rolls his eyes and huffs.

“Whatever you wanna call it, Hargrove.” Steve walks off and throws the Camaro door open.

*

After that, Billy drives them to school.

He parks a little awkwardly and there’s a beat of silence before Steve fluffs his hair, takes a breath, slaps his thighs and says, “Well, guess I’ll see you later.”

He’s out the car faster than Billy can even reply.

Billy feels his eyebrows tick, watches Steve practically race into Hawkins High. Some sort of feeling bubbles up in Billy’s chest before he squashes it down and climbs out after him.

The day passes pretty uneventfully. And then Billy catches sight of Steve in English, sat in his usual seat, only this time he’s not lazily flicking through pages.

He’s scribbling notes as if this is an exam and his life depends on it. His tongue pokes out the side of his mouth in concentration, eyebrows scrunched, gaze flicking from the questions on the board to the book periodically.

Billy studies him for a beat.

And then he wonders if Steve is suddenly frantically interested in English because he said he’d tutor Billy.

And _damn_ , doesn’t that make Billy feel nice and warm. Doesn’t that make Billy start to smile so strong he needs to bite his lip to curb it.

Steve doesn’t glance to Billy once. But this time, Billy doesn’t mind all that much.

That is until basketball practise.

Billy decides to cut Steve the slack he promised, nods to Steve across the court and receives a relieved nod in return.

So Billy tosses to Steve at the first chance he gets.

And then Billy finds out that actually, _interestingly_ , Steve Harrington can play. He moves around too much, doesn’t seem to have any technique whatsoever, but the raw skill is there. It just needs moulded.

And then Billy starts his own little fantasy of training Steve up. Maybe Steve gets a scholarship right alongside Billy, and maybe they’d go to the same college and they’d decide to room together because they’re already friends, they know each other and it’s easier, and one thing leads to another and late nights studying all add up and they’re both unsure at first, sure, but then Steve falls sleep on the sofa and Billy carries him off to bed –

“Hey! Hargrove!” Tommy yells, and that’s all the warning Billy gets before a ball smacks into his chest.

Billy catches it easily. Looks down and realises that Tommy _aimed_ for his chest. He aimed to take Billy out.

To take him unawares and hit him _with a fucking basketball._

“The fuck you think you’re playing at?” Billy barks, strides over to a white-faced Tommy. “Huh? You think that’s funny?”

He lifts Tommy up by his shirt-front and holds him in the air. Tommy’s sneakers screech against the gym hall floor in search of purchase, fingertips digging into Billy’s wrist.

“I – I just –”

The whistle blows.

“Hargrove, out.” Coach states.

Billy stares, bug-eyed. “But he just –”

“Out.” Coach states, no nonsense.

Billy lets Tommy go with a rough shove.

So of course Tommy stumbles right on down to the fucking floor just to make him look twenty times worse. Some guy even rushes over to help him up, and they both stare at Billy as if he’s an animal, a monster, some ugly hulking beast.

His shadow spills over them and seems to elongate, seems to pour right up the side of the wall and up the ceiling.

Hatred burns the inside of Billy’s throat at the sight of the cast he creates, the sight of it falling across somebody like some disfigured, distorted creature.

So he scoffs and stalks off the court. He’s halfway there when –

“Steve.” A voice calls out.

Billy glances over.

He sees Nancy Wheeler stood at the doorway, one hand on her bag strap. Even from here, she stinks of nerves and sweat. She still holds the faint scent of Steve, as though they hugged this morning.

Billy has no right to be angry. Even less right to feel betrayed.

He looks for Steve, finds him with that adorable head-tilt like a puppy. “Nance?”

Then Steve walks across, game forgotten, Billy forgotten, and follows her out.

Billy watches in shock. Steve didn’t even look at him. He didn’t even seem to notice that Billy’s being unfairly picked on and subjected to Coach’s shitty favouritism.

And my fucking _God_ , why should Billy care? Why should Steve have turned to look at him?

 _Because you would_ , Billy’s mind supplies.

Billy would care. Billy would have looked back.

And fuck, it’s been _one_ _day_ and Steve is already messing with his head and screwing up his chances at a new life. He’s already wormed his way right underneath Billy’s skin and started to pick apart at Billy’s carefully constructed image.

No. Fuck that. It’s not happening.

So Billy swallows every last bit of his pride – the way he’s taught himself his whole life – and sidles on over to Coach.

Billy links his arms behind his back: every bit docile and unthreatening Alpha.

“Look, Coach, I never meant any harm –” Billy begins gently.

“I saw what happened.” Coach cuts him off, his eyes still on the game. “Don’t think I didn’t. But it wasn’t the attack you took it for. You need to learn to be a team player, Hargrove.”

Billy grits his teeth. Right. This again.

Coach turns to meet his eye. “Basketball’s a team sport. It takes five other players including you. And you’re brilliant at it. You’re probably one of the best we’ve ever seen. But you won’t amount to anything in the sport, kid, until you realise that.”

Billy doesn’t exactly have a reply for that. Righteous anger burns inside his chest, but only because of the truth in those words. It’s a directionless anger; Billy has nowhere to direct it to, nobody to direct it at.

He settles for a curt nod, curls his first and sits himself down on the side-lines.

He bounces his leg, bites his thumbnail, and for lack of anything better, focuses his eyes on the door Steve left through.

He resolves that when Steve walks back through them, Billy will ignore him for a week. A full week.

He can’t tear his eyes off the fucking door, though.

And then Steve does walk through, his hair a mess, his eyes all blotchy.

Billy’s heart kicks against his ribs so hard he tastes blood.

He’s barely aware of what he’s doing, but he feels himself stand up so suddenly he gets headrush.

Steve looks over and catches his eye. His feet pause. He frowns, confused.

Billy sits back down. He feels like an idiot. He doesn’t know why he stood up. He doesn’t know what he thought that would do. Embarrassment is a hot iron on the back of his neck.

Steve turns away and walks onto the court.

And throws himself into the game.

Billy can only watch in awe. Steve moves with speed, with grace, all his long limbs unfolding, every single one working to his advantage.

Billy feels his heartbeat quicken as he realises Steve would be a _challenge_ to play against like this, he’d be difficult to beat. Billy’s breathing is uneven and his skin is hot, and _fuck_ , Billy doesn’t feel this way outside of his rut. Ever.

No Alpha gets riled up when they’re not in rut. It’s biology, it’s evolution.

It’s the whole fucking reason for a rut.

Sure maybe the occasional tryst or whatever works its way in there, and sure an Alpha might occasionally feel like it, but those Alphas are usually _mated_. The purpose of a rut is to find a suitable mate, to be hyper-aware of any possible mates within the vicinity. After that, arousal comes easy 365 days a year.

Before that, its near impossible to get an unmated Alpha interested in anything casual and fun.

But Steve dribbles the ball like it’s an extension of him, spins and twirls on the court, runs rings around the rest of his team and barely needs any help to score.

And Billy’s tongue is stuck to the roof of his mouth.

 _This_ is what Billy has always pictured a scout would see when watching him. But now there’s Steve Harrington, and they’d both be unstoppable on the court, they’d both shine like motherfucking diamonds.

Billy has to look at the floor and take a couple deep breaths after the game is over and Coach blows the whistle.

He wills his pulse to slow, flexes his fists for a moment. Then he heads towards the locker-room.

It’s mostly empty now. He finds Tommy and Steve are the last ones at the showers, and Steve’s shoulders are slumped, scrubbing at his hair with force.

Billy opens his mouth, is about to say, _you were on fire there amigo_ , and, _where you been hiding that from us, huh?_

But, as fucking usual, Tommy Hagan beats him to it.

“Come on Steve, don’t take it too hard.” Tommy says. There’s a little too much satisfaction in his voice for Billy’s liking.

Billy strips quick. He leaves his clothes on the floor and comes over, grabs a bar of soap and pretends he’s not actively listening to this conversation.

“Princess dumps you for one day and already she’s off with The Freak’s brother. Saw them skipping class together.” Tommy laughs, inadvertently answering Billy despite his attention being on Steve. “It’s just not your week, man.”

That pulls Billy up short. He turns on his shower and dips under the water, his eyes on Steve, who ignores the scrutiny on all sides.

But Billy’s heartbeat has picked up again. Steve’s single. Steve’s available.

Finally. _Finally_.

Almost as if he needed the permission – as if Steve was so thoroughly scent-marked that the idea left a bad taste in his mouth before – Billy finds his eyes sliding lower of their own accord.

Almost unconsciously, involuntarily, he catches himself gazing at the width of Steve’s shoulders. At his strong arms and his long-fingered hands running through his thick hair, his bare chest lightly dusted with hair, his soft abdomen that bulges out a little, tapers down along the line of his sharp hipbone and an even thicker thatch of dark hair –

Billy snaps his gaze up when he realises he’s not said anything, and more importantly that Tommy can _see_ _him._

That Tommy’s watching Billy, clearly awaiting his reaction.

“Ah, don’t sweat it Harrington.” Billy grins wide and sharp, swings close and slaps Steve’s wet shoulder. His palm sings with the contact: his insides gnaw at him for more. Maybe it’s that that makes him risk saying: “Pretty boy like you has got nothing to worry about. Plenty a’ bitches in the sea.”

He leans as close as he can without touching. There are centimetres between them, his breath soft and gentle, eyes focused on Steve’s head. He hopes Steve looks at him and sees Billy’s gaze and realises the double meaning of Billy’s words – _there’s plenty people out here ripe for the picking. Plenty of people who’d lay down at your feet for a chance with such a pretty thing._

But Steve ignores Billy as if he didn’t hear him. Can’t hear him. Can’t see him.

The sting of that rejection burns like acid.

Billy flips Steve’s tap off just to be petty.

It’s an echo of their first week together, before they spoke and Billy found out Steve takes blockers and Steve realised that was a bad idea and they struck up their deal of English lessons for Alpha lessons.

It’s an echo of when Steve pretended ignorance towards Billy’s fucking _existence,_ and it infuriated him the way it infuriates him right now, sinks claws into his skin and starts to drag down. It’s a full-bodied feeling, in his gums and the soles of his feet. Fucking _everywhere_.

Billy flings a towel around his shoulders and clenches his jaw, picks up his discarded gym clothes and throws them into his locker hard. Billy starts tugging on a pair of jeans, hears Steve slap his tap back on and start scrubbing again, despite the fact he’s been under the water going on _ten minutes._

Tommy chuckles and follows after Billy, starts getting dressed right along with him.

And _Jesus_ , Billy gets what Steve meant about lackeys now, because Billy could click a finger and Tommy would bounce over. Actually, maybe he wouldn’t even need to do anything. Seems like Tommy’s picked up the habits of a stray dog without any help.

Billy wants to snap at Tommy to get lost, but he realises their tentative little whatever the fuck has been sorely tested today already.

Tommy seems to be gracious enough to move on without any confrontation about it, although Billy can admit to himself he probably overreacted. It just gets hard being surrounded by Betas and being utterly unable to tell where he stands with them. With Alphas and Omegas it pours off them, but Betas can be snide and they can be challenging and Billy doesn’t fucking know.

So he allows Tommy to trot out hot on Billy’s heels; waits until they’re the only ones in the hallway before he stops dead.

“Hey.” Billy crooks a finger inwards, as if he’s about to impart a secret.

Tommy shuffles up close, eyes wide and hopeful. He’s stinking up the corridor with his nervous sweats.

“Thanks for being cool back there on the court.” Billy slaps Tommy’s shoulder the way he did Steve’s, but he feeling rubs the roof of his mouth wrongly. His instincts hate it for some unfathomable reason.

But Billy hasn’t been able to fathom anything since moving to Hawkins. So nothing much else is new there.

“Oh.” The scent grows stronger along with Tommy’s smile. It’s not attraction, but something similar. It takes Billy a second to parse it because he’s never smelled it directed at him before.

 _Admiration_.

Tommy idolises him. Tommy worships him. Tommy sees him as some sort of God among men.

Honestly, Billy’s freaking touched.

“No problem, man.” Tommy rushes. “It was nothing.”

“Adrenaline’s running high, ya know, just an Alpha thing.” Billy waves a hand.

“Sure, sure.” Tommy nods so fast Billy might be worried his neck will snap.

“Just don’t do it again and we’re gold.” Billy flashes a bit of teeth in something like a smile.

Tommy just keeps nodding. “You got it.”

“So.” Billy leans back, his work here done. “You think you can ask Coach to loosen up a little? Huh?”

“Course, course.” Tommy beams. “He’s such a hard ass, I feel you man.”

Billy grins back.

*

So Steve and Nancy have broken up.

And clearly it’s left Steve in some type of _foul fucking mood._

Billy has no clue where they stand: had planned on finding Steve after school to ask when he wanted to begin their lessons, but after the cold shoulder from Steve all day Billy doesn’t exactly feel like getting shot down again.

Steve Harrington seems fucking fluent in the language of rejecting Billy.

So Billy waits for Max and just takes them home. He finds some food and puts together something relatively nutritious, scoffing it down and heading out for another run.

His legs barely want to co-operate, leaden and heavy after practise.

Billy pushes against the burn, too distracted to notice where he’s going and winds up somewhere different. He slows his pace down to a gentle trot and comes to at the edge of what looks like an abandoned train track.

It snakes around the forest, lined by trees on either side.

Billy’s pretty sure he’ll hear a fucking _train_ in time, so he decides to follow it. There doesn’t seem to be any better running routes in Hawkins, anyway.

He hears them before he sees them.

“So when it’s damp, it’s not _wet_ , it’s damp. Four puffs. You got it?”

Billy knows that voice. He definitely knows that voice; barely needs one word of it to recognise who it is. Would recognise it a thousand miles away.

“The _Farrah Fawcett_ spray?” A child says back, their voice high-pitched and nasal. “Are you for real?”

Billy rounds a corner in the track and spots them easy.

Steve’s wearing a backpack with some type of _nail-bat_ sticking out the unzipped end, holding a bucket of what looks like meat and– _Jesus_ , Billy realises they’ve been scattering it in a trail along the tracks.

He kicks up his feet to check the soles, but thankfully he’s managed to miss it.

There’s a kid with him, barely even half his height, wearing a baseball cap and some kind of wireless mic.

They’ve both got a pair of yellow rubber gloves on.

They’re both clearly engaged in some _weird_ fucking activity.

“And if you tell anyone, your ass is grass.” Steve states, stops and puts a hand on his hip. His voice gets so midwestern when he’s serious. All over-enunciating his words and everything. “Your dead, Henderson. I mean it.”

Billy can’t take it any longer. He claps his hands and startles them both.

They whip around in an eerily identical manner.

“Well, well, well.” He grins wide as he saunters over. “This is what King Steve gets up to on his free time.”

“Billy.” Steve’s eyes are wide. “Wuh, what are you doing here?” He’s seriously trying to hide the bucket behind his back.

As if Billy can’t see the literal _meat_ he’s been scattering.

“ _You_ know the Alpha?” Henderson, Billy takes it, turns to gape at him. “The one from California?”

“Yeah, yeah, believe me the interest wears off pretty quick.” And Steve shoots Billy a dirty look, as if they didn’t spend all morning laughing up at the quarry.

And that.

That pisses Billy off a little bit.

“Oh really?” He starts, moving closer. “See I thought you wanted–” Billy steps in a chunk of beef, looks down, and looks back up. “What.” He sighs. “What the fuck are you guys doing?”

“Luring a racoon. None of your business. Steve, run!” The kid makes as if to leg it, but doesn’t budge an inch, clearly waiting for Steve to take the reins.

“Dustin, it’s pointless. We may as well tell him.” Steve exhales.

“What – _this guy?”_ Dustin throws his bucket out toward Billy. “Are you serious? How could he help?”

“Well obviously he _can’t_ , but he’s found us doing this shit and I can’t think of a better explanation right now–”

“Hey, you don’t know what I can do.” Billy interjects.

“We don’t have to explain ourselves, we can just _go_ –” Dustin

“What age are you, anyway, like ten?” Billy muses.

Dustin stops. Turns to him. “Ten? You’re sticking with that?”

“Enlighten me, then.” Billy twirls a hand in mock grace.

“Fourteen.” Dustin states.

“Is there even a difference?”

“ _Mathematically_ , yes.”

“Okay, okay, okay!” Steve shouts, spreading his yellow-rubbered hands. “Jesus. Billy, we’re trying to catch a … slug.” He finishes with a grimace.

Billy looks down at the meat and looks back up. “A slug?”

“It’s a big slug.”

“You seriously expect me to believe –”

“Dustin, can you explain!” Steve gesticulates his arms. “You’ve _seen_ it!”

“It’s more like a lizard at this point.” Dustin says.

Which – _gross_. Billy’s face is making a face just thinking about that.

“The fuck kinda slug-lizard eats meat?” Billy grimaces. “And why the fuck are you trying to catch it anyways?”

“Because you’re an asshole, okay.” Steve states. “You said you would lay off and you didn’t.”

Billy gapes. “ _This_ is why you’re mad?”

“I don’t know what’s happening.” Dustin adds.

“Yeah, I’m mad Billy!” Steve shouts, and finally looks at him for the first time. “You just joined in with Tommy giving me shit about Nance, so thank you very fucking much –”

“I _joined_ in?” Billy barks. “Jesus, Steve, did you even hear me? I said you’ll be _alright_ , there’s plenty girls in Hawkins dying to date King Steve.”

“You were smirking!”

“I literally used the words, ‘ _pretty boy like you has got nothing to worry about_.’” Billy emphasises with air-quotes. It’s pretty lame, but it drives the point home.

Steve’s jaw works around for a moment. After a second, it snaps shit.

“Are we done?” Dustin asks.

Steve whips around and stalks a few paces. When neither Dustin nor Billy do anything, he stops and looks back.

“Are you guys coming or what?” He huffs.

Dustin practically trips up to follow Steve.

When Billy still does nothing, Steve stops once more.

He glares at a tree, his foot tapping the forest floor in that familiar way. Both hands on hips.

Waiting.

Billy grins. He catches up easily.

“You know I’m not touching that shit.” Billy nods to the buckets.

“Then what’s the point of even _coming along?”_ Dustin’s lisp becomes more pronounced in his utter confusion.

“He can be a witness.” Steve states, still walking. “For when I kill you after we kill this thing.”

Billy sticks his tongue between his teeth and beams at the kid.

“And you said ‘bitches’.” Steve adds. “That’s derogatory to women.”

Billy blinks. He falls into step alongside Steve. “Jesus. I’ll try to rein in my sexism then, Mr. Perfect.”

He looks back and raises a brow to Dustin, who gives a helpless shrug.

 _Turned a new leaf,_ Dustin mouths with a pantomimed action to Steve’s back.

“You know, some chicks dig it.” Billy knocks his shoulder with Steve’s.

Steve cuts him a glare, but there’s a snort from behind them.

Billy’s lips tug upwards.

*

They walk for so long Billy’s beginning to worry about the time. He invents an excuse for cutting their expedition short in order to sprint back home for dinner, until the air chills down to a bone-cold and Billy’s teeth clatter against each other.

“J-jesus, it’s free z-zing.” Billy rubs at his bare biceps in his ridiculously thin, short, and frayed workout top. He cut the sleeves off to look metal, and now realises he just looks ridiculous.

There’s a beat, nobody answers, until something warm and distinctly fabric settles over his shoulders.

Billy turns, stunned, to find –

Steve giving Billy his coat.

Steve is giving Billy his coat.

It really does smell bad. Billy cannot overestimate right now how bad the smell still is.

Being in Steve’s presence somewhat anaesthetises it a little, somewhat helps to desensitise the nose, but being cloaked in it like this – it smells _terrible_.

It smells like the fuzzy sensation of numbness on the tongue, like the sterile, stale smell of a hospital and sickness.

It smells like _blockers_ , and Billy has no idea why he never clued in at first – it’s such a distinctive scent to blockers, made specifically to both nullify any pheromones from the person and also alert everyone in the vicinity that this person is blocking.

But Billy didn’t understand, because his instincts were screaming _Alpha_ and _mate_ and _mine_ while his nose screamed _wrong_ and _off_ and _blocked_ and so his head turned into one big mess.

Because the smell of Nancy Wheeler also covered it all up, covered Steve like a claim, and Billy’s instincts hold him _taken, taken, taken_ , while they also shouted _no, no, no._

But Nancy’s scent doesn’t cover Steve anymore. The winds have carried it all off – now, all that’s left is Steve’s unadulterated scent.

Despite it still being terrible, still rubbing the back of Billy’s throat and wanting to activate his gag reflex with how _wrong_ it is, Billy takes the coat from Steve and slides his arms through.

Steve’s got one hand holding the bucket, the other attempting to place his jacket over Billy’s shoulders, so Billy turns his head and smiles at Steve.

Smiles small and grateful, his cheeks warm and most likely red. “Thanks.” Billy murmurs and pulls it around himself, every display of acceptance he can show.

Steve’s face is hot too, noticeable even in the dying light of dusk, but he just nods and avoids Billy’s eyes. “It’s fine. I’ve got a sweater on, anyway.”

It’s a long-sleeved one too, all soft-knit and touchable. Billy nods back and turns away.

Steve’s jacket holds other scents as well. The faint lingering scent of smoke, the spiciness of his cologne, the warmer floral smell of laundry detergent and a pleasant, fruity, almost industrial smell which Billy guesses is the combination of a million and one hair products.

He searches further; sweat, the barest hint of it, and beneath that is skin. That unique, almost nothing smell of human skin. Salt and earth and soap.

It’s still warm from Steve’s body-heat.

Billy tucks his nose into the collar where it’s most concentrated, where the material rests against Steve’s bare throat all day, every day.

“Almost here.” Dustin calls out.

Billy blinks back to awareness to find they’re arrived at some … abandoned school bus?

“The hell?” Billy tilts his head.

“So we lure it in there, then shut the door once its in.” Steve instructs, voice firm and serious. “Plain and simple. No _pss pss pss_. It’s not a cat, Dustin.” He waggles a finger in Dustin’s face, who admittedly looks a bit shame-faced.

“Yeah, yeah.” Dustin agrees. “It ate mine, I got it.”

 _The fuck,_ Billy mouths after them both, but neither of them are paying attention.

They make a pile of meat beside the door to the bus, climb up on top of the roof, settle down and wait. And wait.

And wait.

“Any chance –” Billy has just started.

There’s a growl, low and dangerous. They all freeze.

It’s hulked down like a dog but it’s stance is all off, it’s unnatural, it’s not natural. The hairs on the nape of Billy’s neck raise, _unnatural, unnatural._

“Fuck, oh fuck, it’s not a lizard anymore.” Dustin grips one of Steve and Billy’s arms. “It grew, shit Steve, it _grew_ –”

“Okay, okay, _shh_.” Steve hisses. “It still might take the bait.”

It doesn’t take the bait.

It waits there, watching them. Taunting them. It knows they’re hiding. Billy can feel it.

“What the fuck is that thing.” Billy’s voice is deadly calm and deadly slow.

“It’s.” Steve tries, sighs and inhales a deep breath. “Hawkins’ own wildlife.” He finishes.

“That’s a spawn of fucking Satan.” Billy states. “Look, I know I’ve got one blocked Alpha and another pre-pubescent kid here, so none of you can exactly _scent_ anything, but believe me when I say this thing wants to tear us apart just for the fun of it.”

There’s silence.

“D'Art?” Dustin whispers, betrayed.

“You can _smell_ that.” Steve asks, aghast.

“Yeah, I can smell that.” Billy says flatly, trying to cover the slight shake in his voice. “And this thing also doesn’t smell like a _lizard slug_. Okay, I don’t know what this is, but it’s seriously out of our mother-fucking league. All the signals I’m getting are sadistically violent, and my instincts are screaming at me to run. So.”

Billy takes a breath. “I’ll distract it, make a lot of noise, you two sprint for your goddamn life –”

 _“Woah!”_ Steve shouts, hands up. “No way! _I’ll_ distract it –”

“What are you gonna do, Steve, yell at it until it leaves –”

Steve stands up and rolls his shoulders.

“Steve.” Billy whispers, stock-still.

Then Steve jumps down off the bus. Billy’s heart leaps up his throat and out his goddamn mouth.

 _“Steve!”_ He shouts.

But Steve is already pulling his nailed back out from behind him, swivelling it in arc as if he’s got a fucking _clue_ what he’s doing.

“Goddamn brave son of a bitch.” Billy hisses, before jumping down after him.

Dustin makes an inarticulate noise.

Billy points a finger up to him. “Don’t move. Don’t breathe. You do, and you’ve got me to answer to.”

And then he turns around and prepares to fight a fucking _monster_ , apparently.

Steve is creeping forward slowly, bat held in front of him. The creature-lizard-slug growls and hunches down, preparing to leap.

“Steve!” Billy lunges forward; grabs Steve and pushes him behind Billy. They’ve only just skidded around when the thing flies and misses them by an inch, rolling about a metre away.

“Billy, what the fuck are you doing!” Steve shouts, scrambling to move in front while Billy scrambles to keep him behind, and then they’re just slapping at each other with a literal fucking _monster_ about to kill them.

“Would you –” Billy elbows Steve’s chest while Steve shoves at his jaw with a palm.

“Jesus, just! Link your arms through mine.” Steve huffs, presses his bony-shouldered back to Billy’s, and then _attempts to do just that._

“The hell is that gonna do?” Billy shouts, whipping his head every which way to try and find Steve.

“I don’t know! I saw it in a movie once!” Steve cries.

“You’re – the – _biggest_ – dumbass –” Billy disentangles himself and tries to turn.

“Duck!” Steve screeches, loud and piercing and right in his ear, but it works.

Billy ducks his head, only for Steve to swing his bat right over the top of it.

There’s a crunch, wet and wrong, a whimper until the monster staggers back.

“How did you see –” Billy gapes.

_“Billy!”_

That’s all the warning he gets.

Something large and solid slams into his side with all the force of a small comet. It throws him into a tree within seconds, as if Billy’s nothing but a wet towel.

Billy lands hard, winded. The air gets knocked clean out his lungs, gone in an instant. He chokes out a ragged, painful gasp, scrambles against the dirt and mud underneath his hands: against his face, inside his mouth, on his tongue, pressed to his teeth where he tries to inhale. He can barely lift his neck, bent at an awkward angle and reeling from the whiplash.

Then he hears the distinctive cry of Steve, followed by some strange, unnatural shriek of the monster.

That sound overrides the pain. That gives Billy the strength to push up off the ground and turn around.

Until he feels the hot breath of the monster on his face.

Billy looks up with white, wide eyes, at the face of a creature he’s never seen before. It’s too dark to make anything out, but every single hair on his body lifts, every single nerve ending revolts. Bile twists in his stomach and burns his throat, even while Billy freezes all over.

His muscles just sieze and lock up. His body is paralysed.

Then it yelps in pain and jerks around.

Bat mid-air, hair in disarray, lip cut and bleeding and a pair of claw-marks torn into his shoulder, Steve growls back and swings the bat into his face.

The monster drops.

Then Steve stands over it and drives the bat back down.

It makes a horrific noise. It’s the noise of bone breaking, snapping, cracking open. Of flesh and sinew being torn apart. And then Steve does it again, and _again_.

He’s about to do it for a fourth time until Dustin appears.

“Code Red, we have a Code –” Dustin cries as he runs over, walkie-talkie pressed to his mouth, and then he stops. He gapes at Steve and Billy.

“I’m gonna get help.” Dustin says finally, then sprints off in the opposite direction.

Billy had only half raised himself, but he falls back against the tree and sinks down to the ground.

That gets Steve’s attention. He drops the bat with an almost comical suddenness, scrambling to crouch at Billy’s side.

“Billy, Billy, are you okay?” Steve’s voice is thin and worried, his hands all over Billy instantly, quick-fingered and panicked.

Billy tips his head back against the tree and submits himself to it. Steve’s hands feel nice on him. Billy is barely conscious enough to appreciate it, but Steve's frantic touch soothes something deep inside him.

There’s nothing to find other than a couple cracked ribs, maybe a slight fracture to the spine. Some cuts and scrapes on his hands and face. A split lip. Maybe he dislocated a shoulder somewhere, maybe not if he's lucky.

Right now, Billy is in too much pain to really think about what this means for his scholarship. Right now, a _college scholarship_ is the furthest thing from his fucking mind.

Because apparently monsters exist, and apperently Steve Harrington _hunts them._

Eventually, it seems Steve is satisfied. His hands smooth across Billy’s shoulders before they drop away, exhausted.

Then he shuffles up and sits beside Billy against the tree. The lengths of their shoulders press together. Their thighs line up. Billy breathes a little easier, feeling Steve’s breaths against him.

“I don’t know how or why, Hargrove.” Steve begins, his voice light despite the circumstances, even though Billy can hear the rasp in it. “But we make a pretty good team.”

“We make an awful team.” Billy croaks drily.

“Oh yeah.” Steve agrees. “Completely terrible.”

And Billy laughs.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to a little something I like to call the longest chapter of this story. I was meant to be developing the plot and then somehow wrote 7k words of a sleepover scene.
> 
> Content warning: Billy touches upon his dieting here. But then he eats pizza!
> 
> Also, quick thank you so so much to everyone who comments every week! To see your comments make me smile! ♥️♥️ And thank you for the suggestions on the new title!

So they walk all the way back to Steve’s mansion while hauling this dead thing they keep calling a _demo-dog,_ because apparently this version of the monster is still a pup. The fully grown ones are called _Demogorgons_.

Which is not horrifying at all. Billy doesn't know what that is and doesn't want to know.

“This is not even fully grown?” Billy wheezes, because he’s got the legs of some one hundred pound creature. And he was thrown against a tree by it.

“Alright, I’ll take over, Dustin you keep leading the way.” Steve yanks the legs from Billy’s grip, stops, and then gathers the thing under both arms.

“Well ain’t that romantic.” Billy grins at Steve holding a monster, bridal-style.

“Shut up, I’m doing this for you.” Steve grunts.

Billy obediently shuts up. Sometimes Steve is a brat, and then he gets so unexpectedly _sweet_ it leaves Billy reeling from it.

“Yes, Dart's not fully grown. They can grow up to ten feet.” Dustin answers eventually, distracted as he points his torch every which way.

Billy stops in his tracks. “Ten feet?”

Dustin turns and opens his mouth.

Billy holds up a hand. “I still don’t want to know. Tomorrow. You can give me all the gory details tomorrow. This is enough to deal with.”

“Suit yourself.” Dustin states.

“I thought you were meant to go _fetch help._ “ Steve grunts to Dustin, staggering a little with the weight of the — dog thing?

“Well doesn't seem like anyone is _awake_ , unfortunately.” Dustin snipes back, and then they have a strange silent moment of communication while walking. Mainly through eyebrow twitches and narrowed eyes.

Billy also doesn’t need to know who else is involved in this entire charade. He ignores them and keeps on ahead.

So they finally manage to find Steve’s fancy ass BMW left at the bottom of the train tracks. Steve flings the thing in the boot while Dustin and Billy both go for the passenger seat.

They stop. They look at one another.

“I’m in the front.” They say at the exact same time.

Dustin stares at him. Billy stares back.

Then the sharp, throbbing pain along his spine rises to a fever pitch. Billy grits his teeth before he admits defeat and yanks the door to the back open.

Dustin climbs in happily, and turns to give him a smug smile.

“Thin ice, kid.” Billy growls.

Dustin whips back around.

Steve makes it around to the driver’s side. He slaps his hands onto the steering wheel. “Let’s go!”

The make a detour on their way back to drop Dustin off at his house, and Steve jumps out to explain to Mrs. Henderson where Dustin has been for the past five hours.

Billy lets Steve handle that one. Seems like the right thing to do.

He hangs back with a hand wrapped around his middle and his feet kicked up on the front seat, waves with a grin from the car when Mrs. Henderson stops to squint at him in the darkness – in-between yelling at Steve at Dustin.

Then Steve climbs back in.

“You want dropped off too?” Steve twisted to give him a smile.

Billy imagines going home.

He’d already missed dinner, the clean-up, the chores, and the meal prep for everyone tomorrow. There’s no way in hell he isn’t facing some kind of astronomical punishment.

But one the one hand, if Billy came back this bruised and beaten and explained that he’d helped an old lady whose purse was being stolen, there was hardly a lot Neil could do.

If he roughed Billy up any further, then he stood to do some damage. And Billy knows that Neil hates nothing more than when Billy bleeds.

Sure he’ll push Billy up against a wall, backhand him across the face or grip his hair painfully tight. But if it goes any further than that and he’s forced to God forbid _punch_ Billy, he’ll scowl at the mark across Billy’s cheek as if it only appeared to personally offend him.

He’ll huff at the stain on his knuckles as if Billy were the one to put it there.

And Billy can’t imagine Neil finding much interest in laying into Billy tonight. He’s probably sleeping by now. He’ll probably do it in the morning.

So really, Billy is actually pretty safe to go home.

On the other hand, though. If Billy milked this for everything he could, crashed at Steve’s house and asked Steve to come with him tomorrow: asked Steve to make up some bullshit explanation of them both getting mugged or some shit. To help him out the way Billy helped Steve today.

It could work.

It might work.

“Can I just crash at yours, Pretty Boy?” Billy asks with a wide smile, the name coming familiar to his tongue.

“Huh?” Steve blinked and turned to him in the backseat, his face red-hot in a second. Then it seemed to click. “Oh. Oh sure. Yeah, sure.” Steve seemed a little inarticulate, his head bobbing up and down with a nod.

Then he turned the keys.

The car gave a whine, a stutter, and died.

“You have got to be kidding.” Billy said.

Steve turned with a grimace. “Yup. Looks like its dead. Come on, it’s not that far.”

So they started down the street; Billy hobbling after Steve’s quick-footed pace until Steve pauses and watches Billy shuffle on up to him.

“Here. I’ll help.” Steve ducks underneath Billy’s arm again, the same way he did after Tina’s party.

He settles an arm around Billy’s waist too fast for Billy to react.

Billy hisses hard and flinches back.

“Oh, sorry, sorry.” Steve babbles, his hand fluttering uselessly over Billy’s side before it settles around him tentatively.

His touch is achingly careful. All his fingertips just ghost lightly over Billy’s waist.

Billy’s throat stings, quickly and abruptly set on fire.

“Thanks.” He manages to choke out.

“You really got thrown pretty bad.” Steve murmurs. “I – when I saw, I.” He stops, and his throat clicks as he swallows. He shakes his head.

“What?” Billy frowns.

“I was worried, man. Seriously.” Steve tries for a light chuckle, but it falls flat after a second.

“I mean, pretty sure any creature that wants to eat you alive is enough to worry about.” Billy intones.

Steve laughs for real this time. Billy feels where it makes Steve’s midriff shake, where he laughs right from his belly.

“You’re pretty funny, Hargrove.” Steve tells him. 

Billy’s insides all light up like an artificial neon sign. He coughs to cover up any reaction those words might cause. Like the dopiest beam he’s capable of.

So they hobble together a little. Billy clenches his teeth against the pained noises and huffs that make their way out, and they stop periodically to let Billy breathe and gather strength to keep going.

Then Steve snickers softly, once. It’s quiet and small.

Billy is about to ask, until he lets out a full-throated _laugh_.

“What?” Billy demands, stops where they stand.

“You were trying to cheer me up. At the showers.” Steve laughs again.

Billy tips his head up to the inky sky and calls out to the Gods: “He finally gets it!”

Steve is silent, but when Billy rolls his head down he finds Steve smiling at him. Billy’s face heats, but he can’t help but smile back.

“Hey, are we friends?” Steve asks.

“After tonight?” Billy raises his eyebrows.

Steve laughs again. It’s only after they’ve reached his front door and Steve is opening up that he pauses, turns around with his house key out.

“That meant _yes_ , right?” Steve asks.

*

They enter Steve’s massive manor silently, Steve letting Billy go in first and closing the door with a gentle snick behind him.

Billy creeps in slowly.

He glances around, expecting to find Steve’s parents sat on the sofa, expecting the stiff-shoulders and the crossed arms and the accusations thrown Billy’s way.

It’s not that late, around 8 or 9pm, and Billy’s pretty sure that Steve Harrington’s parents are the type to wait up.

There’s nobody. He finds nobody.

The lights are all out. The house is empty.

Billy stops in the hallway. “Where’s the folks?”

“Ah, they’re.” Steve waves a hand, scratches at his head. “They’re out of town.”

Billy blinks. “I thought you said you spoke to them? About the blockers?”

“Uh. Yeah, over the phone. I called them. And they were gonna get a flight out, but – it got delayed or something. They’ll be back soon anyway.”

Billy can clearly tell this conversation is making Steve uncomfortable. Not from his scent, but from his body language and posture and expression and everything else that screams _I don’t want to talk about this._

His eyes are focused on the wall behind Billy’s head.

“Well, cool.” Billy says simply. He’s trampled upon something sensitive, so he intends to get the hell out of it. “More room for me then. Just let me know where you want me to crash. Couch good?”

The floor is fine for Billy.

He’ll take anything as long as he wakes up with Steve in the morning, who can hopefully explain this whole situation to Neil.

And, you know. As long as he gets at least a little time with Steve.

He’s a fucking loser. Sue him.

Steve meets his eyes in surprise. “No, dude, I have guest rooms. But don’t worry, you can clean up in the bathroom and then use the phone, let your family know where you are.”

Billy scoffs at the mere thought.

Steve looks at him in confusion.

“Trust me, they won’t be worried.” Billy explains. “They’re probably asleep, the punishment cooked up like some mouse trap for when I get back.” His top lip curls at the thought.

Right now, his blood hot enough with hatred and adrenaline to think _bring it on_.

It hides the undercurrent of fear running through his veins. The fear he should be ashamed of as an Alpha.

“That’s shit.” Steve states.

Billy feels the burn of his focus, and avoids it the best he can.

“Yup.”

But then he realises that maybe Steve means it. He’s not just saying it to say it. Maybe his parents are shit too.

But when he looks at Steve, he sees Steve drop his eyes.

“Well, the bathrooms free if you wanna wash up. I’ll order us some pizza.”

“Uh, I don’t –” Billy starts.

“Don’t worry, I got it. You can pay me back later.” Steve holds his hand up, already heading toward the living room.

“Um.” Billy tries again.

But he’s too exhausted, and in too much pain, to explain. He’ll find something in Steve’s kitchen before the pizza comes.

Scratch that: too weird and unexplainable. He’ll just feign that he’s not hungry. No appetite due to the injuries. Easy.

Billy hoists himself up the stairs one step at a time. And then he’s faced with about a million different options for rooms.

He finds the bathroom after an excruciatingly slow search down a never-ending corridor.

Billy flips the light-switch on.

The swankiest bathroom he’s ever seen beams into existence. Billy feels his brows rise to his hairline. There’s what looks like a _jacuzzi_ in the corner of the room, alongside a walk-in shower in the other corner. Even the taps look fancy, somehow. The sink has a design. It’s not just a basin with faucets attached. It’s _marble_.

Jesus, Steve Harrington must be some old money type.

Billy limps over to the bathtub, sits on the edge, and peels his shirt off.

It’s actually not too bad. The bruising is swollen red, not yet an assortment of rainbow colours it’s sure to be tomorrow. He feels it gingerly with the pads of his fingertips, but after a thorough examination decides nothing is broken. His ribs are probably cracked, but his spine and shoulder unstiffen after a few pained stretches.

Half the pain seems to have been the shock of it.

The element of surprise has disappeared, and the edges of the pain become real and concrete. In a weird way, it’s better.

Earlier the pain was fuzzy and indistinct, everywhere and frightening. Now, it’s specific and thankfully only throbs in localised areas. It’s no worse than a particularly rough night with Neil and a bottle of whisky, or a gruelling injury from basketball and a three week rest period.

 _This_ , Billy can deal with.

No breaks. No dislocations. A few minor injuries that should be fully healed in about six weeks. The ribs are his biggest problem, but Billy can still train with them. He’ll be fine. He forces the rising panic welling up in his throat down, tells himself that this is _fine_.

He can explain to Coach, get Tommy to back him up. The scouts aren’t set to come around until the spring anyway. It’s still October.

Billy wets the edge of a towel and starts on the cuts and scrapes; the most prominent being the ones on his face.

He’s dabbing at his lip in the mirror when Steve suddenly barges in.

“Hey, I – oh. Oh, sorry.” Steve’s face goes beetroot, hands spread in front of him and eyes closed. “Sorry.”

Billy turns to face Steve. He raises his brows at Steve’s total overreaction, and feels a grin take over his face. “Steve, it’s fine. You didn’t offend my innocent dignity or whatever. It’s your bathroom.”

Not to mention that Billy has very much been full-on naked in Steve’s presence, but he’s beginning to realise that this might possibly be the first time Steve has seen him shirtless – because his eyes are always focused anywhere else other than Billy in the locker room.

Steve opens his eyes. His face is brilliantly red. It’s sweet. “Right. Of course.” He ambles over and starts opening the cabinet which Billy had been using as a mirror.

Billy never even _realised_ it was a cabinet. He blinks in surprise, takes a step back to sits back on the edge of the bathtub a bit numbly.

How _rich_ can one person be?

Finally, Steve fishes out a first aid kit.

“Aha!” He brandishes it in victory. Then he turns to Billy. “Here, I’ll clean your cuts.”

Billy waves him off. “Nah, it’s fine. They’re pretty small.” He points to his lip.

Steve stares at him. “You’ve not seen your back, have you?”

Billy blinks. “No. Why?”

“You have a massive gash all down your back, dude. It looks painful as fuck.”

“Oh.” Billy says. “Damn, that must be what hurts.” He rolls his shoulders but finds them as loose as before. Then he flexes his spine and, despite the throb of pain, is still able to physically do it.

Billy figured that meant he was fine. Pain is pretty normal for what has just happened to him. And everyday life, actually.

“Turn around.” Steve instructs. “It needs cleaned, otherwise it’ll get infected.”

Billy does as he’s told without a thought; plants his both feet in the empty bathtub and grips the edge. Then he realises what he just did and feels his eyebrows lift in surprise.

He really just obeyed in seconds.

Steve must have been telling the truth about being some Super Alpha. Even on blockers, he’s unchallengeable.

Billy tries to ignore the heat working up his throat and across his face over it. He’s not analysing that at all.

He hears the soft sounds of Steve gathering things from his little box, rifling through them one by one. And then something cold and wet touches Billy’s shoulder.

Billy flinches on instinct.

“Sorry. It’s just water. This isn’t the worst part I’m afraid.” Steve murmurs. “I’m just getting the blood off before I disinfect.”

Billy swallows and nods, silent.

“I’m guessing you wanna know what the fuck did this to you–” Steve tries.

“So what happened with Nancy?” Billy cuts Steve off.

He’s still not mentally prepared for the conversation of whatever the fuck those things were. Doesn’t think his brain will be able to absorb the information without exploding.

At least not tonight.

“Oh.” Steve says, soft and punched.

There’s a beat of silence.

“You know.” Steve begins, voice low, still gently dabbing. “Nancy was the only one who ever called me out on my bullshit. Before her, nobody else did that. I never even noticed that nobody else did that. Isn’t that weird? Everybody else just went along with whatever I said. Whatever I did.” His fingers are soft and careful in their swipes.

Billy is quiet, listening.

“And after I _did_ notice, it’s like I couldn’t un-notice it. I just woke up one day and the goggles were off. Everyone was just … fake. I could see it all so clear, man. But not Nance. And Jesus, I didn’t give a shit that she was the only person I hung out with. She was real, you know? I just didn’t care what people thought anymore.”

The base of Billy’s throat hurts. He wants to swallow and finds he can’t. The unmasked affection in Steve’s voice is almost too much to bear.

“So I had no friends. Big deal.” Steve says, and Billy somehow senses him shrug. “I mean I thought to myself, did I even have any to start with? Who the fuck have I lost? And I loved her.” His voice goes hard. “I mean. I really loved her.”

Billy squeezes his eyes shut tight.

“But, turns out she was just pretending like everyone else.” Steve murmurs. “I don’t even know when she started. That’s the worst part, that I don’t even know anymore.”

Steve’s hand falls away. There’s silence.

“She said that?” Billy manages to get out.

He doesn’t want to talk about this. Doesn’t want to hear anything about Steve’s epic love and devotion for Nancy Wheeler.

But something compels him to say it, because he knows Steve wants to talk about this. Steve wouldn’t have said all that if he didn’t want to unload on somebody.

Billy can be that somebody

“She was drunk.” Steve confesses. “It was at Tina’s. I don’t think she knew what she was saying, but. She said everything we had was total bullshit. And the thing is, when I think back, I realise she stopped telling me she loved me months ago. I just ignored it. I ignored her. Plus It was my idea to go to the party; she didn’t want to. And the more I think about it, the more I see what a dumb as shit idiot I’ve been.”

“Hey.” Billy says before he can stop himself. He turns a little.

Steve’s eyes are squinted and bloodshot, his expression strained. He’s clearly holding back tears.

“We can all be idiots in relationships, man.” Billy says, even though he hasn’t the faintest clue. “We don’t wanna see the signs. But maybe give her some space, maybe she’ll come back.”

The idea tastes rotten in his mouth, but Steve just shakes his head.

“Nah, man. It’s Jonathan. It was always Jonathan.” He blinks but some of the tears drip out; Steve scrubs them off his cheek lightning-fast. He gives a shaky laugh, awkward and pained.

Billy hates this. He hates seeing Steve like this. He hates seeing Steve in pain.

But mostly Billy hates Nancy fucking Wheeler for giving Steve a complex that is going to take years to undo. Hates everything about this entire shitty situation and the fact that Steve doesn’t feel good enough, or somewhat to blame, or _guilty_ about any of it.

As if this is somehow _his fault._

If Billy could somehow convince Wheeler to take Steve back, he’d do it in a fucking heartbeat. Even if it hurt like all seven levels of hell.

To erase the look on Steve’s face right now, he’d do pretty much anything.

“Jonathan Byers?” Billy tries instead, aiming for a smile however small. “Man, maybe she needs her eyes checked.”

But it works. Steve hacks out a wet laugh and sniffs loudly.

“For real Steve, she wear contacts or something? I can’t wrap my head around that. She gives you up for _Byers?_ Byers is the kinda guy you avoid at the supermarket. He’s the kinda guy you settle with at _forty_.”

Steve laughs again, his face crinkling up, some joy working its way back into his features.

“Seriously, he’s got a real shifty look about it.” Billy keeps going. “I wouldn’t be surprised if we see him in the news in ten years, _local guy collects animal innards for fun._ With that camera the whole time? Nobody needs a damn camera every second of the day. You see something pretty, you take a picture of it. Simple as. You don’t need to wear it like a necklace. Use that thing as a goddamn weapon, is what I’m thinking –”

“Okay!” Steve laughs, his voice still rough but his eyes are shining. “I get it. Jonathan and Nance are better suited anyway–”

“Okay, permission to punch you every time you say your cheating ex and her bastard new boyfriend are sweet and innocent people.” Billy states, points a finger. “I’m not asking, I’m telling, pal.”

Steve studies him with a smile, his eyes warm. “She didn’t cheat.”

“She may as well have.” Billy decides, and turns back around with finality. “Cheating is cheating in my books. Even in the fucking mind.”

Steve goes back to cleaning. And then he says, “You ever been cheated on?”

Would it make Steve happier?

Would it actually make him happier?

“Hell yeah.” Billy lies. “You know at parties, all the shit that goes down there. It happens. And it cuts you up inside, you know. Makes you feel like garbage. But here’s the thing.” Billy turns to look at Steve. “Would you ever cheat?”

Steve frowns. “Fuck no.”

“Exactly.” Billy turns back around. “Takes a certain type of person, my man. I know you think Wheeler is Mrs Perfect, but we all got flaws. Takes two to end a relationship. It wasn’t just you, Steve.”

Steve is quiet again.

“You ever been in love?” He asks.

Billy swallows down at his feet. “Um. Nah. Never been in love.”

There’s things Billy will lie about, and things he won’t.

Steve doesn’t respond.

“But I feel you, Steve.” Billy murmurs after a moment. “When someone you care about … doesn’t feel the same. I get that. I’ve been there.”

Steve rests his hand on Billy’s shoulder and squeezes. The touch is warm and grounding.

And then he starts on the antiseptic.

 _“Motherfucker!”_ Billy cries when the first sharp sting lances up his spine like a bolt.

“Has to be done.” Steve states, ignoring Billy’s hisses and gasps in favour of getting on with it.

“Goddamn– you fucking did– is that –! Ah! I think– _Christ!”_ Billy shouts out at intervals.

“There!”

And then Steve is leaning closer, as close as they’ve ever been, and winding a bandage around his middle. He pulls the material around Billy’s front, puts his breath on the back of Billy’s neck, his nose close to Billy’s ear.

“Sorry – two seconds –” Steve murmurs, his voice right next to Billy’s cheek.

Billy shivers. His skin is all gooseflesh, lighting up at Steve’s touch, at the barest brush of his hands on the non-injured parts of his body.

Warmth begins to pool in his belly, familiar and terrifying because Billy knows what that means, because it tingles pleasantly and itches for more and _fuck_ , Billy is definitely getting–

“All done.” Steve says at last, and pulls back.

Billy takes a couple long, calming breaths.

“You can get up.” Steve tells him.

Billy does, a little unsteadily, and steps out the tub.

Steve is standing there, looking torn, lip between his teeth.

“What?” Billy asks, suddenly stricken with the idea that everything he’s feeling is all over his face.

“I’m gonna do something.” He announces, hands splayed. “Don’t freak the fuck out.”

“Uh.” Billy blinks.

Steve bridges the space between them and –

Hugs him.

He hugs Billy. He wraps his arms around Billy’s shoulders tight, squeezing Billy to his body.

Billy wastes no time; wraps his arms around Steve right back. “What’s this?” He still asks, just to disguise his own eagerness.

He tries to let up his grasp, but can’t seem to make his arms cooperate.

“Thanks.” Steve says. And then he pulls away and holds Billy at arm’s length. The hug lasted less than two seconds. “For just there.” Then he grins. “You wanna eat pizza and get high on pain meds?”

Billy frowns. “What about you? Didn’t you get hit pretty bad on the shoulder?”

Not that Billy was all paying attention or whatever.

“Aw, I did them in the kitchen.” Steve shakes his head. “We have a kit in there too, in case anybody chops a finger off cooking.” He grins at that and wriggles a finger up and down, like a _nerd_.

“But.” Billy starts. He frowns, tilts his head. “So you came in to check up on how I was doing?”

“Yeah.” Steve answers, bright and truthful. “How were you supposed to reach your back?”

And it’s stupid, it really is.

But that small thing just makes Billy warm all over. He reaches out and squeezes Steve’s shoulder back.

Steve’s smile widens.

*

The settle on the sofa to wait on the pizza, flick the TV on just for some noise while Billy finds his eyes dropping shut every ten seconds.

Steve doesn’t seem to be faring up any better. The adrenaline has washed right out their systems, and they’re left sagging on the couch and desperately fighting to stay awake. Eventually the doorbell goes.

Steve lifts himself up and goes over to the door.

“Oh! Steve!” A voice says, bright and cheery.

Billy peers around the hallway to see the pizza delivery guy stood with a little cap on and a wide smile. “I thought this was your address. What’s with all the pizza? Aren’t your parents away?”

“Ah, hey, Rony.” Steve chuckles a little awkwardly, scratches his neck.

Rony opens his mouth, and then catches sight of Billy in the hallway.

Still shirtless, lip busted, and bruises already forming over pretty much every inch of his body.

Rony’s whole face goes slack.

Billy gives a slow smile and a two-fingered salute.

“Uh, Steve?”

“I’ll pay you at school. With tips!” Steve says, and closes the door with a foot.

He stands there with all three boxes of pizza and an unimpressed expression. “You had to make that worse, didn’t you.”

There’s a knock on the door.

Billy and Steve freeze.

Steve opens the door.

“Uh, my boss is kind of strict dude –” Rony tries.

“Tomorrow, Rony.” Steve tells him, his voice dark and strong. Billy’s arm-hair lifts.

Rony flees.

“With tips!” Steve shouts after his retreating figure.

Rony just keeps running

“Well.” Steve says slowly, turns to look at Billy. “That went well. I’m one hundred percent sure there won’t be any wild rumours circulating around tomorrow.”

Billy grins. “Thought you didn’t care anymore?”

“You know.” Steve tilts his head. “There’s some extremely improbable situations I’ll admit I would care about people knowing. _This_.” And Steve waves a hand to Billy’s general person. “Situation happens to be one of them.”

Billy snorts and rolls his eyes. “Whatever. Hey, can I check your kitchen?”

Steve blinks. “What for?”

“I – just for food.” Billy gives a lame shrug.

Steve stares. “Billy, I bought _three_ _pizzas._ They’re _right here.”_ He lifts his arms, as if to prove it.

Lord, does Billy know. The whole room is filling with the smell of them. Hot melted cheese, fresh tomatoes, mushrooms and onions and peppers–

“I’m. I’m not really a fan of pizza.” He tries.

Then, Billy’s stomach chooses that exact moment to gurgle violently. He actually needs to place a hand over his abdomen and press down, it’s that strong. Almost bends him in fucking half.

Steve frowns. “What the fuck is going on?”

“Nothing, I just –” Another gurgle passes over him, and Billy clenches his jaw against the pang of hunger.

Steve’s face flatlines. He moves the pizza boxes to one hand, a hip pops out, and his other hand falls onto it.

Billy sighs. The truth wriggles inside his mouth and presses against his teeth. Somehow, Steve just makes Billy want to spill.

Despite every effort, Billy finds it coming out in stuttered chokes.

“I’m not. I don’t really. Eat carbs.” Billy states. “Because of basketball.”

Steve’s head tilts. “The hell does pizza have to do with it?”

Sweet Steve. Innocent Steve. “Steve, carbs are evil.” Billy states. “Sure they taste good, but they’re totally shit for performance and nutrition. It’s just dough and oil and fat. It does nothing for you.”

“What, you read that in some insane lifestyle magazine? How to look like a Hollywood actor, who only looks that way for 6 months until they finish filming?” Steve asks. “Come on Billy, food doesn’t have to always be healthy. It doesn’t always have to give you some nutrient. What, so you just don’t eat _any_ carbs or sugar or salt? Whatsoever?”

Billy nods. “Pretty much, yeah.”

Steve stands with his mouth slightly parted for a long moment. Then resolve comes over his features. “Billy, you’re eating this pizza.”

Billy really does not have the energy to fight about this.

How much harm can it do? He’s pretty sure he could train it off tomorrow.

Billy rolls his eyes. “Fine. A slice, Harrington.”

“No. This full pizza.”

“Look, Steve, I get what you’re tryna do but you don’t understand, I need the diet of an athlete if I –” Billy ruffles his curls, and then he blows out a sigh from his nose. “If I wanna score a sports scholarship, alright? This is just how athletes eat. This is just how I gotta eat. Scouts check everything, and your diet and weight is one of them.”

 _Jesus_ , Billy’s never even told anyone about it. His heart hammers against his ribs.

Steve cocks a hip, considering. “Alright. Then I’ll race you. If I’m faster, you eat this full pizza and admit I’m right and food doesn’t have to be healthy all the time for you to stay fit. If I _lose_ , you eat a slice and I’ll spend all night trying to convince you to eat more.”

Billy chuckles. He holds his hands up. “Alright. I’m game. Where?”

“Backyard.” Steve sets the pizza boxes down and opens the door.

Billy rolls his shoulders and walks over. Steve stops him with a hand on his chest, and Billy freezes instantly, hopes his face doesn’t instantly flood with colour. He’s still shirtless, found it too hard to raise his arms and so just settled for nothing.

“Do we have a deal?” Steve holds a hand out.

Billy takes it and shakes it hard.

So they make their way to the backyard. It’s still freezing balls, and Billy bounces on the spot to stay warm. Steve marks a little finish line with his foot in the mud, then walks three feet and stops.

“Here. From here to there.”

“Easy. Bring it.” Billy cracks his knuckles and lines up with Steve.

“On the word ‘go’. Okay?”

Billy nods.

“Go!”

Steve is off like a shot. Billy is close, but he can’t manage to bridge the gap. Steve just about edges it.

He wins.

“Woo _hoo!”_ Steve shouts, arms up. “That’s right!” He jumps around on his feet, skipping the length of the yard, happy as a little kid.

Billy bends over to pant. He tastes copper in his mouth, every single muscle in his body protesting.

“Damnit.” He hisses, and spits out some saliva.

Steve stops and turns to Billy. “Let’s eat.” His teeth gleam in the dark.

“That was a fluke. I’m injured, asshole.” Billy runs a hand under his nose.

“So am I.” Steve points to his shoulder, and his tongue pokes out the side of his mouth between his teeth as he grins.

Which is _Billy’s thing_ , which means he’s consciously (or otherwise) mirroring him.

The pizzas are still hot by the time they make it back and settle down on the couch to eat. Billy finds his shirt and throws it on; too cold to care about the fact it hurts every single muscle in his back to do, and too cold to pretend like he's not cold as well. Steve opened his mouth, seemed about to offer, but Billy had already pulled it over his head and sat down.

He sits on the sofa with Steve, their pizzas spread between them. Billy opens the lid of the paper box. His mouth goes hot and wet from the sight of the pizza, but then his heart rackets up a notch. Anxiety is a bag of live worms in his gut, all squirming for escape.

“Steve.” Billy tries.

And then Steve takes a slice from his own box and shoves it in Billy’s open mouth.

The flavour explodes on his tongue. Salty sweet, greasy, rich, sharp, _cheese_. Billy’s eyes close, a noise from deep within his chest escaping. A noise he barely knew he was capable of making – a long, drawn-out _moan_.

“Eat.” Steve commands.

Billy chews like a man on the brink of death, like he’s been starving for the last three years because fucking hell he _has_. Literal tears sting behind his eyelids as he swallows, and he grabs Steve’s wrist tight and crushing to make sure Steve feeds him the rest of the slice.

Then the pads of Steve’s fingertips meet Billy’s lips, and something comes over Billy, and he takes them into his mouth and sucks.

They’re salty and greasy and perfect. The taste of Steve’s skin is better than anything Billy has had in his mouth.

“Ah – Billy –” Steve gasps, cut-off and choked.

Billy’s eyes fly open.

He drops Steve’s hand instantly. He stares, struck, at the realisation of what he’s done.

But Steve laughs loud, grabs some pizza for himself and almost swallows it whole. He uses the same hand Billy had in his mouth.

Billy laughs back, wild and crazy and just that little bit unhinged. He can feel the grin split his cheeks in half, feel his heartbeat pulsate in his throat a mile a second, feels heat boil inside his belly, but Steve carries on eating as though nothing happened.

So Billy grabs a slice of pizza and stuffs it in his mouth.

It keeps getting _better_ somehow, if such a thing is possible, if food can somehow taste even more mouth-watering the more it’s eaten. His appetite doesn’t subside immediately, but the hunger doesn’t hurt – all that Billy feels is good. All he feels is the warm dough filling him up from his very toes, sliding down his throat into his stomach and igniting every single one of his nerve endings. It’s better than sex, better than anything Billy’s ever felt in his life.

He eats like a maniac, like a complete animal: tears at it with his teeth and clutches it with both hands. Steve only copies him though, so Billy feels no sense of self-conscious at the fact he’s eating like a total mad-man.

Soon, they’re done with their boxes. They seem to finish at the exact same time, their eyes meeting over the open lids splayed out between them on the sofa.

Billy doesn’t know who moves first. All he knows is that they’re both diving for the last box on the floor, ripping the lid up, tearing into it, pulling the pizza apart with no finesse and not even attempting to follow the pre-cut lines.

Billy pulls chunks of the pizza off and his hands are covered in grease and tomato sauce, but it doesn’t matter, none of it matters, because it tastes so fucking good that Billy realises this is what food should be, fun, enjoyable, fulfilling, satisfying.

That’s the fucking _point_.

If it’s not, then what actually is? What’s the point of eating to not get any of this? What’s the point on missing out on _all of this?_

Billy and Steve’s hands meet several times, sometimes just brushing over each other, other times latching onto the same piece and tearing it in half between them.

But after just a couple minutes, they’ve completely decimated the whole box, and Steve catches the last slice with quick fingers before Billy snaps a hand around his wrist.

Steve meets his eyes. They’re dancing, playful, challenging. Billy starts to grin, tugs on Steve’s wrist a little.

Steve yanks his wrist out and pulls the pizza towards his open mouth.

Only Billy tackles him to the floor.

They land with a thud onto the space between the sofa and the coffee table, with a yelp and a laugh.

Steve throws his hand above his head and out of reach, his other hand going to Billy’s hip in an attempt to heave him off. But Billy is just as fast, catches the hand on his hip and presses it to the floor, pushes the rest of his body up towards Steve’s hand.

The only problem being that it lines up Billy and Steve’s faces.

Billy is directly above Steve; they’re still laughing, scrambling, wrestling around. Until Billy feels Steve’s hot breath against the underside of his neck and glances down.

Billy stops.

Steve’s cheeks are flushed, his mouth pink and smiling, white teeth exposed, brown eyes bright with happiness, head tilted up towards his hand where the prize awaits.

But then Steve must feel the change that suddenly comes over Billy.

He looks up.

Their eyes meet, and then hold. Billy doesn’t know what his expression looks like. He wants to pull up his familiar sneer or smirk or even a lip-curl, but his face feels numb. He can’t look away. He can’t make his body move.

Steve’s features go lax. His smile falls away, dark brown eyes focused on Billy’s face. Billy feels the tingle of heat of the back of his neck and the tips of his ears.

Is Steve’s face growing closer? His breath smells like cheese and tomato sauce. It smells sweet and a little sour. Billy can taste it in the roof of his mouth. He feels his head begin to lower, drawn like the tide towards Steve, pulled by some gravitational force he’s not even aware of.

But then he catches the way Steve’s eyes widen the slightest fraction.

That snaps Billy out of it.

Billy throws his head forward and takes a bite of the pizza right out Steve’s hand. Steve yelps and scrambles beneath him in outrage, but it’s a lost cause: Billy has it in his mouth.

So Steve pulls the slice toward him and bites down on the other end.

Now their faces are even closer now. Their noses are touching. Their mouths could only be centimetres apart.

Billy’s heart jolts in his chest at the proximity. At the soft smattering of freckles over Steve’s face. At the beautiful shinning life in his challenging eyes. At the phantom feeling of Steve’s mouth on his: so close that Billy’s own lips are imagining the sensation.

Billy doesn’t know how long they stay like that: seconds, maybe, or hours. He sees the challenge slowly fade in Steve’s eyes, replaced with something else, something Billy can’t name.

Billy pulls back, tearing his bite off in the process. He chews with unfeeling teeth and watches Steve do the same, their eyes holding onto the contact.

Then Billy realises he’s lying on top of Steve. That he’s holding Steve’s wrist down onto the carpet. That he’s pushing Steve to the ground.

Billy sits up so fast he’s almost dizzy. That somehow makes it _worse_ : Steve is splayed out underneath his lap, Billy’s thighs bracketing Steve’s hips, as if they’re –

Billy jumps up onto his feet.

Steve looks stunned, his eyes a little unfocused, the pizza slice held in a limp grip.

Billy holds out a hand out. He’s still flushed and breathless, but to leave Steve on the flood seems a little unfair. And probably suspect too.

Steve blinks before he takes it.

Billy pulls Steve to his feet.

They’re pushed close again, Steve’s chest pressed to Billy’s front.

It’s a split second before Steve hastily steps back, brushes his legs with one hand, and then splits the rest of the pizza slice.

He holds out half to Billy. His face is expectant.

Billy looks at it.

Happiness – not amusement, not pleasure, not pride – but _pure_ _happiness_ bubbles up within him. Billy doesn’t think he’s ever felt it. It’s utterly foreign.

Because it’s pure and untainted. It’s not sarcastic or sharp or temporary, it’s not a short rush that fades in seconds.

It’s full. It’s so full that Billy’s entire body feels whole and unified. As if the parts of his lungs and his kidneys and his bowels that he couldn’t feel before are bursting at the seams with it. As if he didn’t know what it meant to have a body before this moment.

The sight of Steve Harrington, ruffled and flushed and holding out half a slice of pizza to Billy. Sauce smeared all around his mouth, his ears red, his shirt rumpled.

If anyone told Billy that sight would make him feel like _this_ , Billy would have snorted at them.

But it does make him feel this way. Billy feels a beam crack his face open like a jar of pickles. The happiness must just shine out the crevices it makes, from his eyes and his cheeks and in-between his teeth, as though he’s some insane lit-up lantern. It makes him want to laugh from the sheer joy of it. So Billy does laugh, deeper and warmer than he’s ever laughed in his life, ever dared to laugh, ever been made to laugh.

Steve blinks, thrown. His own version of a beam begins across his face as he watches Billy. It’s uneven, massively wide, crooked to one side and so totally genuine it almost looks painful. He starts to laugh, higher than Billy’s, lighter than Billy’s, but somehow complimenting Billy’s darkly hoarse voice.

Steve presses a hand to his stomach, his whole body shaking with it. Billy follows suit as he bends with a hand on one knee. And they laugh like that, over absolutely _nothing_ , until Steve stuffs his half of the pizza in his mouth in one swift move.

He looks expectantly at Billy, cheeks bunched, shakes the bit of pizza left.

Billy takes the offered half and eats it in one bite.

After that they find the pain meds in one of the kitchen cupboards. And they take two each.

“There’s a science to it.” Steve instructs. “After an hour we take another one. You won’t feel it now, but you will.” He grins.

So in the meantime they find some beer cans and crack them open. Shot-gun it as it runs all over their hands and down their arms while they splutter and laugh and lick it off.

They make a blanket fort in front of the TV and put on some old Star Wars. Shout their opinions about which one is the best and why the one they’re watching isn’t. The painkillers mingle with the beer in Billy’s gut and give him a pleasant buzz, makes the ends of his fingers tingle, makes his tongue feel fuzzy and large.

It’s enough of a buzz to flop down onto his elbows beside a cross-legged Steve. Shuffle a little closer. Roll over and put his head in Steve’s lap.

Steve doesn’t stiffen or startle. He doesn’t even blink. After a minute, a hand falls on top of Billy’s head.

Billy relaxes, all his muscles going loose. He nudges Steve’s thigh with his nose until Steve starts to card his fingers through Billy’s hair.

“Thanks.” Billy murmurs. _Not just for this. For everything. For tonight. For the best and weirdest day of my life._

“You too.” Steve murmurs back, his eyes on the screen. His focus is unwavering, but his expression is soft. He doesn’t explain what he means.

His fingers are gentle as they stroke Billy’s scalp. The sensation lulls Billy into a half-sleep, enough to feel Steve lie down above him and stretch out, his hand still stroking in Billy’s hair.

Eventually, Steve stops.

Billy forces himself awake. He peels his eyes open and looks up to where Steve lies. His mouth is open, breathing deep. Billy concentrates: Steve’s heartbeat is a slow, quiet thump.

He’s out cold.

Billy pulls the hand in his hair out and presses it to his mouth gently. Steve doesn't move. Billy lets it go and places it on Steve's chest.

Then he shuffles up in an army-crawl and lies down very, very slowly beside Steve. He watches Steve sleep until he can’t fight the exhaustion anymore.

But before he drops off, Billy realises he’s made a massive mistake.

Because yeah, he and Steve are friends.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much like instagram, I am dropping this here and fleeing for dear life ahah. I am in such a weird space with writing at the moment. I have had three (3) short story rejections this month. We are 11 days in. Ahahahah. At what point does one admit defeat? 
> 
> Also, this has Steve POV! If people like this, then I will totally add his POV in more. If people prefer Billy, then that is also fine. I, as always, intended to get back to more plot-related things, like Steve tutoring Billy and the upside down and everything, but then Steve kinda sneaked into my subconscious. So blame him! 
> 
> Anyhoo, thanks for reading. Much love always ♥️

Billy has always been kinda fascinated with the body’s propensity to heal.

Always sort of liked that it does it without question, without ask. That you wake up one day and it’s easier to move than it was yesterday.

He’s doing leg stretches, because shin splits are currently the absolute bane of his life. So he’s laid out all across the floor with one leg bent underneath him, arms flat on the ground above his head, because he saw it in some book – and he should probably use a personal trainer for how much he exercises, but screw it. DIY is fine.

Until Billy lifts his head and sees the fading yellow line of a bruise on his bicep is down to just a needle-point.

Three days ago, Neil held him in place with a crushing grip around his arm and lectured Billy on being responsible, respectful, etcetera, etcetera.

Billy seriously doesn’t have a clue how he’s not bored of that lecture yet.

And Billy’s not exactly a _peach_ either, but the finger-marks around his arm had come up in ugly purples and blues. It hurt to lift his arm in basketball a little. Just a faint lancing sting; just the reminder of it.

Billy’s no masochist as well – though he’s almost sure it would make his life a hell of a lot easier. Sadly, he prefers his pleasure without a side order of pain.

So he hissed air through his teeth and carried on.

But Billy has practically conditioned his body to be a fast healer. Neil gave him the bruise on Monday, and by Thursday it’s almost gone.

Now, Billy lifts a hand and presses a thumb into the mark. Even though there’s still a little bit of colour there, it doesn’t hurt. There’s no feeling to it at all.

Billy knows that when he moves to college, any evidence of his life with Neil will be washed away like a rinsed paint palette. All the colours will just run down the sink and away into the ocean, leaving behind a spotlessly clean slate.

Billy knows his body will never hold anything from his childhood: he’s made sure to keep it that way. He’s made himself so submissive and small in order to ensure that none of Neil’s lessons scar.

Even if it goes against his entire nature to do it.

Billy flexes his arm, smiles at the ease with which he can. It feels like a reward for his submission: for standing there and accepting Neil’s treatment. He goes outside and shoots some hoops. Cheers when he scores. Kisses the spot where the bruise had been with a loud smack.

Billy’s mind is nothing like his body, though. It doesn’t wash clean.

Everything stains, even if Billy scrubs at a spot until it’s raw. Even if he gnaws at his lip until it’s bloody, even if he presses nails into his palm until the cut into his skin, the tears escape eventually.

Billy screws his face up, slaps his cheeks, kicks the wall, but nothing works.

Even if his body has separated Neil Hargrove into just another object like a stray ball or the corner of a table, even if it heals just the same from all those things, Billy’s mind hasn’t done the work yet.

When Billy wakes up in the morning, it’s to the sight of Steve’s face half-pressed to the ground. They must have fallen asleep facing one another; their noses are still close.

Billy can feel a little of Steve’s breath. Not much, just barely. His mouth is open and drooling a little puddle onto the carpet, features slack with unconsciousness. It’s not gross but it’s not exactly attractive either. Something about it is calming, to see Steve in his not-attractive state. As his natural self. They fell asleep right on the floor of the living room inside their blanket fort. Steve is twisted into what is sure to be an uncomfortable position, still in his jeans and sweater, face-down on his stomach with one knee up.

The TV is still on, even though the movie must have ended hours ago. It’s just the options screen now.

It washes Steve in colour. His body looks like one long bruise, cheeks dusted in blues and greens. His hand is resting close to his face, fingers curled up. They look gentle somehow, as if they’re holding something in sleep.

Billy moves a hand over, slowly, so slow. His arm turns blue from the light. As though getting close to Steve hurts.

Billy won’t wash this away, though. The memory of it will live inside his skin. He wants to touch everything. The lone strand of hair curled over Steve’s forehead, the sharp curve of his jaw, the smooth back of his hand.

But Billy can’t decide which would be more inconspicuous, and settles for stopping lamely at Steve’s bent elbow. He touches it with the tip of his finger. It feels like nothing. It’s an elbow.

Jesus, he’s pathetic. He is the word loser personified. The fact that somebody can reduce Billy Hargrove, resident Alpha celebrity in Hawkins and practically a pro athlete at this point, to this level of pitiful is beyond him. Even if this is his mate. There should be a goddamn limit. 

Steve doesn’t move. He doesn’t feel it.

 _Obviously_.

Billy gets a little bolder and moves his hand up.

At that exact moment, his gut clenches painfully.

Billy grimaces in confusion. The fuck? It happens again: the very distinctive, signature pain of an oncoming shit.

And then he remembers he ate two entire pizzas and washed it down with alcohol and a bunch of painkillers.

Yeah. His stomach hasn’t had to digest anything other than dry meat and vegetables for three years, the occasional beer thrown in at the weekend.

So it’s about to remind him of its existence, it seems.

He scrambles up, doubles over with a gasp as the new position seems to realign his intestines. Everything is heading south.

Then Billy straightens, and his back makes something of a _whip-crack_ noise.

Billy gasps louder as pain comes alive, singing in the wounds he forgot he’d managed to get last night.

“Billy?” Steve murmurs, sleepy and confused. He hoists up onto his elbows, glances at Billy and blinks fuzzily. His head is tilted at an adorable angle.

“Uh. I’m about to shit myself.” Billy states.

Which, he thinks, is possibly the least attractive thing that a person could ever say.

Let’s just make that _the_ least attractive.

Steve looks alarmed. He sits up fully.

Billy points a finger. “Don’t follow me or you’re dead.”

And then he runs up the stairs and finds the nearest bathroom.

Afterwards, as Billy is bent over his legs on the toilet and staring at the toes of his mud-stained boots, he heaves a tortured groan over the last five minutes.

“Great.” Billy mutters.

Because great. He just told Steve Harrington he was about to shit himself. Really no better way to start the day.

Billy creeps down the stairs to find Steve crouched around his garbage can. He shudders with a retch before he pulls his head out to look at Billy.

“Ugh.” Steve manages. He looks faintly green around the edges.

“Throwing up is better than almost shitting your pants.” Billy informs him gravely. He leans against the kitchen counter for support. His knees could still give out at any minute.

“I think they’re pretty much the same thing.” Steve rasps.

Billy laughs, and then Steve laughs, and it feels as if somebody stabs him through both eyeballs.

“Ah. Don’t laugh. No laugh.” Billy closes his eyes and holds a hand out.

“ _You_ laughed.” Steve groans, in just as much pain. “Jesus. What’s happening to us?”

“You’re not meant to eat cheese late at night.” Billy croaks back. “And we practically inhaled a factory.”

“Gosh, you sound like a mom.”

“You just said _gosh.”_

They have one second of laughter before the both of them cut it off with a quick inhale and a wordless agreement never to do that again.

“I don’t wanna die, Billy.” Steve croaks, then spits some saliva into the trash.

“Come on.” Billy ambles over and hauls Steve to his feet. He wraps an arm around his waist like Steve did with him and drags him to the couch.

“I don’t think the pain meds helped.” Steve mumbles into his neck.

“You think?” Billy manages a laugh, which he thinks is pretty good considering Steve’s mouth is dangerously close to his pulse.

“Or the beer. _Fuck_. Is this a hangover? We weren’t even drunk.”

“Were we?” Billy asks.

“Stop answering me with more questions.” Steve huffs.

So, alright. He’s not doing as well as he thought.

“I wasn’t drunk.” Billy manages to formulate. “But I also haven’t had cheese in a couple years. I think my system just kinda rejected it.”

“You and me both.” Steve sighs as he flops back down onto the sofa, his eyes closing. And then one blinks open to squint at him. “Wait. A couple _years?”_

Billy nods.

Steve’s head drops back. “I’m too hungover for that.”

Billy laughs. Steve doesn’t reply.

There’s nothing much to do while Steve sprawls across the sofa, so Billy switches on the TV and starts flicking through. He sits on the edge of the sofa-arm where half of Steve’s head rests, careful not to touch.

After a beat, Billy clears his throat and looks down.

“Hey.” Billy starts.

Steve opens his eyes and looks up at Billy.

“Are you good to take me home?” Billy asks. Because he realises he didn’t exactly give Steve his master plan yesterday. “And, you know. Tell my folks why I stayed over? Just make up some bullshit reason. Would really help me out a lot.” He chuckles awkwardly.

“Sure thing.” Steve throws a hand up blindly, manages to smack Billy’s chest before it falls back down. “Just gimme ten. Okay twenty.”

Billy smiles for real. “Great. Thanks.”

Steve nods. “Twenty.” He assures.

*

When Steve was younger, his parents used to take him to showrooms at the weekend. Cars, bathtubs, microwaves, sofas, lamps, marble worktops. 

Name an object, and Steve has probably been to a store dedicated to it.

The smell of newness, of bubble-wrap and plastic film permeate his memories. Of new carpet, new curtain, new rug. It’s an immediately distinctive smell, one that Steve is instantly awake to whenever he catches a whiff of it at the mall. One he wrinkles his nose at and quickly avoids.

Every Saturday for a large portion of his childhood, Steve was dragged along with his parents while his dad cruised the furniture section, both arms crossed and mouth pursed, and his mom flipped through the carpet samples and stroked the tile selections.

Most of the time they never bought of anything. It was, in their words, _just to have a look._

It was their _hobby._

It was the most sinfully boring couple of hours of Steve’s life and he had to repeat them every single week.

No amount of investigations into every nook and cranny of the place, or time spent in front of a silent television while it played the middle of a movie Steve never got to finish anyways, was enough to detract from the mind-numbing, soul-sucking activity that is interior design shopping with his parents.

He’d only manage half an hour of freedom as well. Then his mom yanked him out of whatever crevice he’d snuck inside with a tug on his ear.

After that, it was a period of morosely following them: head hung low and feet dragging behind him until the store clerk chuckled about how there were _‘plenty of better ways to spend the weekend, aren’t there, kid?’_

He’d never be allowed to stay at home. And on the car ride over to some hick little warehouse, Steve would press his nose to the window and yell every time they passed a park, a carnival, a garden centre, a shopping mall.

“Please, please, twenty minutes!” Steve cried.

“No.” His dad said, final.

“Look! Look it does ice-cream! Can we just pick up some ice-cream?”

“No.”

“Please, _please_ –”

“Steve.” Dad said, with that familiar baritone that meant business.

Steve’s mouth snapped shut. But he simmered with rage at his own body’s betrayal, at the fact he couldn’t kick up a fuss for longer than a minute.

He couldn’t stand up to a Beta, not when he didn’t have any instincts to fight back with.

He slumped so low his knees dug into his dad’s seat.

Then Steve hit puberty.

Sure, he went through all the usual phases; a cracked voice and an embarrassing boner here and there.

But while everyone was busy presenting, while Tommy was glowing at school because _I’m a Beta just like everybody else, Steve, man I was so freaked I’d be something weird, or not present at all_ , Steve got nothing.

 _It’ll happen_ , his friends would say. _Some people are just late._

His parents took him to the doctors.

Steve didn’t want to go.

“Do we need to?” He croaked, because his voice was still going through some major updates. “This is so _embarrassing_. What am I meant to say?”

“You’re going, Steven, and that’s it.” His mom said.

So Steve quietly stewed in the waiting room while the receptionists gave him quick glances and murmured among themselves.

Steve barely noticed, so entirely _mortified_ that he was going to the doctor about this and not just waking up with instincts the same as everybody.

The room smelled funny. His nose itched, but no amount of scratching and rubbing helped the irritation. The hairs in his nostrils seemed to buzz. The room smelled of sickness and stale death.

Then they all walked into the doctor’s office and the doctor stood up.

She blinked at Steve, wide-eyed.

Steve just marched over to the examination table and jumped up.

“Let’s get this over with.” He sighed.

His parents sat down on the chairs opposite, folding their hands and waiting patiently.

“What appears to be the problem?” The doctor asked, still standing.

“Well, he’s not presented yet and he started puberty a few weeks ago –” Mom began.

“Sorry, I’m sorry.” The doctor put up her hand with a gentle smile. “What do you mean not presented? Your son is an Alpha.”

Everyone in the room blinked.

“What?” Steve asked.

“You’re an Alpha, Steve.” She explained to him. “You’ve presented. Maybe in the last couple minutes, even.”

They went home in silence.

Steve retreated to his room because he could tell they wanted to talk about him without him there. When the first murmured words began, Steve tiptoed out and over to the top of the stair-case.

He could only hear the faint snatches of conversation.

“Never had an Alpha in the family…” His mom said before her voice grew indistinct, clearly trying to be quiet.

“…Will have to just keep it to ourselves for now, until we understand a little more.” His dad said. There was worry in his voice, only distinguishable to Steve for how foreign it was.

Steve lay back down on top of his bed. Confusion churned in his stomach. What was the problem? He’d presented as _something_ , at least.

Then the weekend rolled around.

“There’s a nice little woodware store, just a couple hours away. Steve we’ll be leaving just after lunch –”

“Do I _have_ to come?” Steve moaned, already comfortable in front of the TV.

“Yes, Steve, you can’t stay home by yourself –”

“I _can.”_ Steve persisted. “I’ll be fine. I can be by damn myself for four hours.” His voice hardened.

It wasn’t anything new on his usual complaints.

But for some reason his mom fell silent.

Steve turned his head to look at her at the dining table, having breakfast with a mug of coffee and a plate of toast.

“Well, if you think you’ll be alright.” Mom said eventually, leafing through the newspaper. She didn’t look up once.

Steve’s mouth fell open. He stared at her for a beat, just to check that she wasn’t joking.

“I will be.” Steve rushed when she didn’t say anything. “I’ll watch some TV, get some homework done.” Hope was rising fast.

“Mm.” Mom nodded, disinterested. “Okay.”

And then they were putting on their coats. Steve was still sat in the exact same position he’d been in an hour ago, but they were none the wiser, as if Steve didn’t exist.

Steve could barely believe his luck.

“See you in a few hours!” Mom called at the doorway.

“If you need us, just give us a call.” Dad added, gruff.

And then Steve watched them leave the house.

“Oh my God.” Steve grinned wide.

 _Finally_.

Finally they listened to him. Finally they paid attention to him. Finally they realised he was old enough to be trusted by himself for a few hours.

Steve heated up some soup, ate it in front of his favourite cartoons, floated around his pool for a little while, and did some math equations.

It was bliss.

And then it kept happening.

At first, Steve didn’t realise that it was him. He just thought they were in a good mood. They were starting to trust him. They didn’t feel like putting up a fight today. They were tired from work.

Then it got weird.

It got that he could eat anything he liked, which could be takeout for a straight week. It got that he could go to bed whenever he liked, which he tested every night and passed out at 5 in the morning before waking at 7 for school.

Then it got that everyone at school stared at him, worshipped the ground he walked on, did anything he said and anything he wanted. Agreed with all his ideas. Laughed at all his jokes. Hung on his every word he said until Steve realised nobody else had spoken for half an hour while Steve tried to carry the conversation.

It got that every girl in class had a crush on him and he’d broken up three relationships because of it. It got that guys would grit their teeth at him, but when Steve opened his mouth to explain they’d scatter.

It got that Steve was eating like shit, sleeping like shit, and feeling like shit.

Until he made his dad submit.

He’d had a real bad day of people climbing over themselves for him. His teacher bumped up his grades for no apparent reason: not just in one class, no, in _all_ of them. He was called to the Principal’s office to go over it, until the Principal took one look at him, waved him away, and told Steve he’d clearly improved.

Steve tried to deny it – if anything, he was getting _less_ work done. His grades were total shit. But the Principal just smiled and called him ‘modest’. His friends, by comparison, were practically fighting amongst themselves over who got to hold his stuff or collect his lunch. It was nice at first: after two weeks, it was infuriating beyond belief.

So Steve wanted to park himself in front of the TV, eat an entire box of cookies and keep going.

“Steve.” Dad tried. “I think you’ve had quite enough. We’ve just bought them, they’ll be finished before we’ve had one.” He held out a hand.

“No.”

“That’s enough.” Dad stated, and some of his usual business tone crept in.

“I said _no.”_ Steve growled.

Dad’s hand dropped; he took a step back.

The rush of victory swept over Steve.

Mom gasped as she walked into the room. “ _Steve!”_ She shouted. “How dare you make your father to submit to you!”

Dad recovered in seconds. He stood to his full height. His eyes were hard, but with something like disbelief in them too.

He wasn’t aware he’d submitted. Neither of them were aware of it. But Steve’s attention hadn’t been focused on his mom and dad like he usually was. He had just been looking at his dad.

Has he been making them submit this whole time and they all didn’t know?

“I –” Steve gaped, cookie held in numb fingers. “I didn’t – I wasn’t –”

“Your room. Now.” Dad commanded.

Steve obeyed instantly.

Fear coiled heavy in his gut and wound him up tight.

He had forced his dad to agree with him, somehow. If mom hadn’t been there to see, Steve wouldn’t have even known. Dad wouldn’t have even known.

Had Steve done that with everyone else too and nobody had even noticed?

“So you’re something we’ve termed a Super Alpha, or Hyper Alpha.” The doctor explained, her fingers steepled calmly in front of her. “All it means is that within your average Alphas, you would be the most dominant. An Alpha among Alphas, if you will.”

She tries for a smile: nobody else reacts.

“They aren’t rare in and of themselves.” She recovers. “In a large city, if you came across other Alphas, your instincts would eventually settle as you’d begin to understand where you stood. But, because there’s no other Alphas in Hawkins, your nature is … testing itself. It needs to find a boundary and it hasn’t yet.”

Steve realised that was exactly the case.

Realised that he was testing his parents, pushing at the rules he’d grown up with his whole life.

Because he wanted to find something, anything, that just for a second _pushed back._

“Can anything be done?” Mom asked, as though it could be surgically removed.

And that’s how Steve was introduced to blockers.

He stared at the little pill in his hand. “I’m not _sick_ , though.”

“It’s just something that has to be done, Steve.” Dad said, and placed his hand on Steve’s knee in an uncharacteristic show of affection. “We’re not happy about this either. But you’re fourteen years old. You can’t parent yourself. You can’t pick your own bedtime and what to eat for dinner. We’re doing this for you.” His voice was calm, but firm.

Steve just kept his eyes on the pill.

“Sweetheart.” Mom sat beside him too, stroked his cheek. “Do you really want everything to stay the way it is right now? You want to make everybody around you do whatever you say, even if you’re not trying to?”

Steve glanced up. He shook his head, and swallowed the pill.

*

Steve waits until Billy steps into the Beamer and takes a breath.

“So.” Steve starts.

Billy turns to look at him while he’s buckling up, the full focus of that blue-eyed, mega-watt stare on Steve.

Because _Christ_ , Steve finally knows how everyone felt when he looked at them off blockers.

When Billy looks at him, Steve feels light-headed. He feels as if his bones go weak and they’re hard to hold up. It doesn’t make sense what so freaking ever, but here Steve is.

“What’s the plan? What’s the story?” Steve continues, once he’s regained his senses and blinked a couple times.

Billy bites his bottom lip. The skin goes white from the pressure. He releases it redder than before, and it’s a little damp with saliva. Steve swallows.

“Um.” Billy starts. “Kinda hoped you could do your witchery doo-da, if you know what I mean.” He waggles his fingers as if to demonstrate.

“My witch – wait, what?” Steve barks.

Billy gives him a flat look. “Come on Steve. That thing you do where you tell somebody to do something and they do it.”

Steve stared for a long, long moment.

Billy’s brow starts to furrow.

“Is that what’s happened here?” Steve manages to get out, rough and dry. “Did I do that to you?”

“What, no, of course –” Billy’s face scrunches up, and then it smoothes out as he looks at Steve. “Hold up. Do you mean to say you don’t _notice_ when you’re doing it?”

Steve attempts a smile, but it’s tight and constricted and just the side of _readytocombust_. “Kind of the whole reason I went on blockers, Billy, was because I didn’t _notice_ when I did this shit, but I guess it was entirely _pointless_ if my whole life I’ve just been making people go along –”

“No, no, no, no.” Billy babbles, waves a hand in Steve’s face.

Granted, Steve shuts up.

“No, Steve.” Billy states, wide-eyed, and drops his hand. “The blockers _work_. You’re not an Alpha. You’re a nothing. I swear, I can’t scent anything from you.”

Steve studies Billy, but he feels himself release the tension he’d suddenly gathered. “Right.”

“What I mean is – half of dominance is just tone of voice and posture. Your instincts fill out the other fifty, but it’s not the whole shebang.” Billy explains. “It’s not as if you could _challenge_ another Alpha. But you can dominate people.”

Steve gapes.

“You don’t do it a lot!” Billy assures, or at least tries to. “You’ve done it I think _twice_ since I got to Hawkins.”

Steve tries to process this information without opening his car door and screaming up at the sky. “Alright.” He says slowly. “When did I do it?”

“Last night. When you cleaned my wound. And then when you told that pizza kid to get lost.”

Steve stares. “So the _two times_ I’ve done it have all been _yesterday?_ That means I could be doing it every day and you wouldn’t even know and _I_ wouldn’t even know–”

“Steve, Steve, relax.” Billy grabs his shoulder, squeezes it hard and gives it a shake. “It’s not as bad as you think. It’s not some kind of sorcery. I know I called it that, but it was a _joke_. Everyone does it every day. I promise, I _promise_ Steve I could point out people doing it. It’s natural. It’s totally normal.”

Steve searches his brain, tries to find anything with Nancy, or with Jonathan, Tommy. H, Carol, or –

“Steve.” Billy states. “Tell me to get out the car.”

Steve looks at Billy, sees his serious expression. “What –”

“Just do it.” Billy nods, as if encouraging him.

“Get out the car.” Steve says simply.

Billy smiles. “No.”

But Steve twists a little in his seat. He needs to know.

“Can you please get out the car?” Steve asks politely.

Billy shakes his head, still grinning.

Steve sighs. He knows what it is.

“Get out the car right now.” Steve states, his voice dark.

Billy’s hand flies to the handle door before he realises what he’s doing. He stares at his hand, then whips his eyes up to Steve.

Steve drops his forehead onto the steering wheel. “Fuck. I have been doing it.”

“That.” Billy tries shakily.

“It’s okay.” Steve replies, utterly miserable, eyes closed. “You’re right. I don’t do it every day, probably don’t even do it every week. But I have been doing it. Not with … friends or Nancy or anyone. But with … you know, a retail assistant. Or my mom. _Fuck_.” Steve whips his head up. “I can’t believe I never noticed this before.”

Steve’s life has been cherry pie in the sky _easy_ until the last couple months, when his girlfriend cheated on him, broke up with him, and inter-dimensional alien life somehow rolled its way into his miniscule hometown.

Why did he never fucking question that? Why did he never wonder at every opportunity landing at his feet, every friend kissing the ground he walked on, every girl liking him back?

How much of that was his Alpha nature? How much of any of it was just _Steve?_

“It’s not something you really notice.” Billy states. “It’s easy. It’s _natural_. It’s just instinct, to try to speed up the process. Steve, it’s nothing to feel guilty about. Every damn Alpha, Omega and Beta does it in some way or another. _Even_ the blocked ones.”

Steve turns to look at him. “But how? Isn’t the whole fucking point of blockers to supress your instincts?”

“Steve. Goddamn.” Billy closes his eyes sighs through his nose, in the way he does before he imparts some worldly wisdom to Steve’s innocent little mind. It’s happened too many times now for Steve’s liking.

“Blockers are basically just contraceptives.” Billy continues. Which. Oh. “They supress your _cycle_ , not your fucking instincts. I mean, I dunno with the amount you’ve been taking, but people on blockers can still use their instincts just fine.”

“But I can’t scent anything.” Steve says. “And –”

“No, I mean.” Billy sighs. “Look. We can do this after school? I’ll explain everything. But I’ve got a storm waitin’ for me at home and I’d kinda like to face it.”

“Oh.” Steve remembered. “Right.”

So he reverses them and drives to Billy’s house.

“Did we decide on a plan?” Billy breaks the silence halfway there. If Steve weren’t mistaken, he would almost detect a hint of anxiety in Billy’s voice.

But Steve is mistaken, because nothing in Billy’s body or tone gives anything away. It’s just a hunch. Sudden and random.

And probably because Steve himself would be anxious to go home after more than twelve hours of radio silence.

Steve bites his lip. “Wing it?”

Billy looks at him. “You any good at that?”

“Been doing it my whole life.” Steve replies.

Billy nods and turns away. “Wing it.”

Steve smiles at Billy’s profile. At the hard set of his mouth, the quiet strength of his shoulders. It really does look like Billy is rearing up for battle.

Steve admires that. He’s not asking Steve to take the blame – even though Steve can guess from his entire demeanour that he is, indeed, heading towards a storm.

He’s accepted that Steve has no fucking clue what to do, that it’s pretty unlikely Steve will fix this situation. He knows he’s in the shit.

Steve watches bravery happen in real-time. Watches it form in Billy’s posture, in his eyes.

When Steve first saw Billy, it lit something up inside him that must have asleep his entire life.

He saw Billy’s boot-clad foot impact the ground of Hawkins High and stood still, entranced, as Billy hip-checked his car door shut and pulled out a cigarette.

Something about the way he held himself was different to anyone Steve had ever saw. It was regal, aristocratic, even with the double denim and the pierced ears. He held himself like he knew how to. And Steve let his eyes follow Billy’s walk into Hawkins High, purposeful and self-assured, before he forced his gaze away and back to Nancy.

Then Billy was in Steve’s English class. He took up all the available space in the room, his presence large and demanding. Steve curled himself small to avoid looking over like the rest of the entire school.

They ran into one another for a final time in the locker-room.

Steve still isn’t sure what came over him when their eyes met. Doesn’t know what compelled him, why he needed to be closer, he _needed to be closer_. This desperate, clawing, frantic need pushed him forward and into Billy’s space, pushed their heads together and pressed hard.

Steve towered over Billy, discovered he was surprisingly short and stocky like a bull. His nostrils flared like one, large and curved. There was something wild and a little deranged in his eyes, as if a red flag had been waved.

Steve wanted to reach out.

Billy bet him to it.

His hand fit around Steve’s throat like a glove. And there was intention in it, there was a threat.

But for some insane reason, Steve relaxed. He felt his muscles lose their tension without consciousness of it. Something settled inside him; a raging whirlpool whipped up in his very core abruptly fell away. Dissipated.

Then there was laughter, cheering, and Billy laughed back.

_Submission._

“He just made you his _bitch,_ Harrington! You submitted like a damn Omega in heat!”

Is that how submission felt?

Did it feel that way for everyone?

Peace. Calm. Steve wasn’t forced to submit to Billy. Billy didn’t make him submit.

Steve … _wanted to._

He thought back to his first weeks as a new Alpha, making people submit left right and centre without even knowing it. He remembered their wide smiles, the shine in their eyes as they did whatever Steve wanted.

“We got a new Alpha in town!” The guys in the locker-room crowed.

And Billy was an Alpha. Steve never really knew what the word meant until he looked at Billy.

Billy, shirtless and glistening, radiating energy and dominance on the court. Radiating strength. Giving off heat like a small sun, like a comet crashed down on them with its own gravitational pull. He yanked everybody into his orbit. Once there they floated in Billy’s sphere. They spun around and around and never got close to touching.

Steve thought about the sensation of Billy’s hand wrapped around his throat. Strong. Firm. A slight pressure to the fingertips in warning. Something inside Steve gave way, caved inwards at the memory. He wanted it again. For some unknown reason, Steve wanted Billy to do that to him again.

 _This is why everybody worshipped the ground I walked on_ , Steve thought. If it felt like this. Rewarding. Addictive.

But then Billy turned out to be a massive asshole who relished in the attention and praise, sought it out, sunk his claws in and tried to force it from Steve.

Steve wasn’t about to give Billy the satisfaction. Didn’t plan on becoming one of his many fans, one of his starry-eyed victims.

He _burned_ to, though. Every cell in his body screamed for it. For the bliss of submission.

Some fucking Hyper Alpha Steve made. One whiff of another Alpha in the vicinity and he’s putty in their hands.

He knows Billy a little better now, of course. Still doesn’t know the reason for the terrible week of hell, but knows Billy is actually a genuine guy. More than that, Steve knows Billy is funny, clever, sharp. Knows Billy laughs in a strange shout, a burst of noise that splits his face apart. Knows that Billy is fiercely competitive in everything he does, recklessly bold too, and independent to a point far past stubborn.

Knows Billy has freckles that dust across his cheeks. Knows the heat of his body grows stronger the closer the proximity to it. Knows it carries the faint scent of smoky cologne and forest air. Knows that Billy has an energy so palpable Steve could probably drink it.

He knows that Billy is a good listener. He knows that Billy has experienced heartache, same as anybody. Knows it makes him a little more human, discovering that, but no less dangerous.

Billy emanates a very real sense of danger, in every movement he makes, in every expression that passes across his face. Steve can’t really explain it; he figures it must be another Alpha trick Billy managed to learn that Steve didn’t.

Steve could imagine Billy’s life up until this point. Could imagine the power he’s held since he hit puberty, could imagine the doors he’s kicked down and the records he’s beat, the awards he’s won, the steady rise to fame that isn’t slowing anytime soon. Steve can understand Tommy’s worship – not just because Billy is an Alpha, but because Billy is a _Billy,_ the only one of his kind.

Steve can share in that worship. Already does, a little bit. He knows in twenty years after Billy has moved on from Hawkins, when Steve catches him on the TV or in the newspaper, he won’t be surprised.

The thought makes Steve ache, oddly. It’s a strange emotion. Steve isn’t sure what to call it.

“Just here is fine.” Billy points to a small driveaway, in front of an even smaller house.

Steve feels his eyebrows rise. He hadn’t meant to assume anything, but – with the way Billy acts, the constant wardrobe of shirts he parades, Steve would’ve thought Billy was – he was sure Billy was … a little better off.

And Jesus, now he feels like a Grade A Asshole. What the fuck does it matter?

Why Steve had assumed Billy was _rich_ is a better question.

“Right.” Billy rolls his shoulders and steps out.

Steve is hot on his tail, and skips around in front of him with a hand out. “Hey. I’m doing this.”

Billy blinks those mega-watt eyes at him. He nods.

Steve strolls on up and knocks on the door. After a beat, a man opens up.

He must be Billy’s father, though there’s absolutely no resemblance. He looks at Steve, curious, and then his face goes cold when he catches sight of Billy.

Steve stills.

The pre-rehearsed speech of being _oh so sorry to return your son so late, sir, we were simply caught up with something or other,_ flies right out the window when Steve sees how the man looks at Billy.

There’s no happiness, no relief, no emotion. There’s just cold.

“Sir.” Steve starts, voice hard and commanding. “Please accept my apologises. You see, I hit your son with my car.”

Billy splutters on his own saliva behind him, and tries to recover in an odd clearing of his throat.

The man returns his gaze to Steve, shocked.

“Terrible accident, all my fault. I wasn’t looking where I was going at all. And at the traffic light as well!” Steve shakes his head, shamed. “I only clipped him, but I couldn’t live with myself if I let your son go home. I let him stay at mine to sleep off his injuries. He’s still a little concussed, I would assume, though he’s adamant about not going to the hospital. If he decides to, please let me pick up the bill.”

The man stares at Steve for a moment, stunned. Then he turns to Billy. “Right. Billy, is this true?”

Steve looks behind him. Billy nods, silent.

“Well then.” The man says.

Steve takes a step closer, up onto the porch until he’s stood in front of Billy’s father. “Please don’t go too hard on him, Sir.” Steve lowers his voice. “He barely knew who he was until a few hours ago. Hit his head rather badly. If you’re wondering why he didn’t call, he really wasn’t able to, and I didn’t feel comfortable letting him attempt to make his way home in that state.”

The man looks at Steve, nods dumbly. It’s working. It’s _working_.

Steve lays a hand on his shoulder. “Really.” He states, and his voice is hard. “Let Billy have some rest. I can imagine you’re keen to tell him how worried you all were, but I doubt it would do much good right now. Yes?” He squeezes down.

The man nods again. “Yes. Yes.”

Steve lets go. “Perfect.” He steps down from the porch, catches sight of Billy’s stunned face, and smiles at him before he adopts his serious face and turns around again.

“Oh, and Sir?” He calls, as if he’s forgotten something on the way back to his car. “I’ll take Billy to school tomorrow if he decides to go. I couldn’t let him drive after a bang to the head. I’ll be here to check up in the morning.”

He holds eye contact when he says that.

The man nods, and looks at Billy. “Billy? Come inside. You’re off chores tonight.”

Billy takes an uncertain step, then another. Once Billy’s reached him on the porch, the man lifts a hand and pats Billy’s arm, once, before it drops away. He nods with finality, and walks back into the house.

Billy whips around to Steve.

Steve is half-way to his car already, but he waited to see Billy inside. He grins when Billy throws an open mouth and bug-eyes at him.

Steve throws him a thumbs up back, excited their plan worked.

Billy grins too. He pops a thumb out at his side, discreet. Then steps through his doorway and shuts the door.

Steve watches for a moment.

He can’t see through the curtained window, can only make out vague shapes as one of them goes to the sofa, and the other one enters the room. Billy. Two other shapes standing up to greet him. Nobody touches one another.

Steve drives home slowly. He’s still got another hour before school, doesn’t feel like eating anything for a year, and can’t seem to get the image of Billy’s father out of his head.

The way his eyes settled on Billy. The way nothing lit inside them; no recognition, no relief. Nothing. Emptiness. Steve’s never seen that happen before. It sits heavy in Steve’s gut like old milk.

His attention is only on the road ahead of him, until he sees something blur in his periphery and he turns his head.

“What – !” Steve almost chokes on his tongue.

Billy is running at the side of his car.

He’s sprinting, his arms working along with his legs, and when he catches Steve’s eye he beams wide and waves a wild hand.

Steve breaks in seconds.

Billy carries on forward for a little while, staggering to a stop, wind-milling his arms in the most graceless act Steve has ever seen Billy make.

Steve jumps out his car.

“What –” He barks.

Billy doesn’t answer. He rushes up, grabs his face, and smacks a hard kiss onto Steve’s head.

“You’re fucking brilliant, Steve Harrington!” Billy shouts, eyes wild, hair blown all over.

And then he releases his grip with a little shove and starts running away.

Steve trips back against his car, uses it to steady himself. He watches, aghast, as Billy jogs back with all the ease and elegance of an athlete – despite being thrown against a tree not twelve hours ago.

Steve feels his mouth stretch, wide and involuntary. Billy’s just a spot in the horizon when Steve laughs.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After that depressing last chapter note, I recently found out I’ve been long-listed for 3 short stories with 20 other writers :D Fanfiction, regardless, always proves to be a wonderful escape from the professional side and reminds me of the fun, freeing, and community-based side of writing.
> 
> On another note, I received an extremely unpleasant comment on one of my stories for this fandom, probably the worst in my 6 years of being here. I'm really against authors censoring feedback from their own readers (I refer mainly to those published authors who attempt to delete bad reviews from the face of the Earth). Thus, I do not delete comments, but please note I read and reply to everyone, and comments such as these will not be respected or tolerated. I will write a paragraph back!
> 
> I will say that in this fandom I’ve found there is a larger amount of ‘hate’ than most, which deeply saddens me. I am preaching to the choir, but please remember that these are fictional characters and stories, but the writers, artists, and people behind them are not. Be kind! Especially now 💖

“Are you ready?” Steve asks.

Billy cracks his knuckles with a nod and braces for impact.

Steve pulls out all his English textbooks from his backpack and lays them across the coffee table.

Billy stares. Some of them have the word ‘beginner’ across the front cover. This may or may not be a colossal waste of his time.

See, Billy had a plan. He always does. But this one was pretty much to get closer to Steve through any means possible.

Tutoring? Check. That’s pretty plausible for a new kid in town. Plus, Steve was the one who offered it in the first place.

Billy doesn’t exactly fall into the ‘nerd’ prototype, thinks he could pretty easily float through Hawkins High as the jock meathead without any complications. It makes perfect sense, and makes his life a little easier. He doesn’t get pestered by the teachers to come to debate club or snide looks from the rest of the class because of it.

Tutoring is also a sure-fire way to get close to somebody. Billy’s seen the movies; he knows what happens.

So, Billy planned to chat a little about being an Alpha, then Steve could talk to him about English, and Billy could pretend it was a mutually beneficial situation for both of them.

He could pretend that he a) wasn’t randomly dedicating a large portion of his time to helping Steve with this Alpha thing, or as Billy likes to call that – standing with a megaphone by Steve’s ear and shouting _I have a crush on you!_

In addition, he could b) get more time with Steve.

The only problem, the only small snag, is that Steve opens up like a damn flower or a stray puppy you throw bread at in the street one time and it follows you home.

Billy doesn’t _need_ more time with Steve.

He already has all the time in the world.

Because Steve firmly and quickly attaches himself to Billy’s side after Billy crashes at his place.

Then after that: after Steve bamboozles Neil into being – by some twist of fate – _nice_ to Billy, after Billy sits on his bed for eleven seconds before sprinting out the door and down the road and kissing Steve’s head, Billy realises for the first time in his life he could either skip school or go in.

His choice.

Up to him.

Billy isn’t sure how long Steve’s spell is meant to last, if it has a timeframe or if it even wears off at all _,_ but he doesn’t fancy pushing it. His back, however, hurts like some godawful motherfucker. Billy figures one day is safe. One day off.

So, he crawls into bed and doesn’t move until that night.

The next day, as promised, Billy steps out into the brisk grey of the November morning air and pulls his Camaro door open–

Only to watch Steve Harrington pull into his driveway.

Billy stands, paralysed, as Steve parks his Beamer and gets out.

They stare at each other with identical expressions of confusion.

“What are you doing here –” Billy starts.

“Why the hell are you ready right now?” Steve carries on over him, blinking at Billy. “I’m early.”

“I’m dropping Max off.” Billy explains.

 _“_ _I’m_ taking you to school.” Steve’s frown deepens. “Remember?”

“I thought.” Billy glances around, leans a little closer and lowers his voice. “I thought that was, you know. For show?”

Steve widened his eyes with a nod. “Uh, _yeah_. What kinda show would it be if we didn’t give it?”

Billy stops in his tracks. He huffs a smile, shakes his head, and walks over to Steve’s car.

Billy hadn’t been in the front when Steve drove him and Dustin home, and it was too dark to see much. So he doesn’t really remember anything about Steve’s car, what with still reeling from the memory of that freakish, unnatural creature and the fact Steve straight up _killed_ it.

With a bat.

Climbing into Steve’s car, Billy sees first-hand how clean it is. There’s not one inch of clutter – not even a stray water bottle, a wrapper off a granola bar.

It smells like air-freshener and that strange, synthetic scent of emptiness. Billy’s still not used to it. He’s constantly reminded that Steve is on blockers, continually rediscovers that the ways Billy communicates and is used to communicating are not possible.

Whereas Billy is used to stepping into a friend’s car and scenting the air, feeling a certain sense of kinship and the discovery of a myriad of little scents that make up them, Billy can’t have that with Steve.

At least not yet.

“Why you out so early?” Steve turns to him as he’s buckling. “Aren’t we dropping off Max?”

 _We_.

Steve really fucking commits. Billy ignores the way it makes his chest warm.

He waves a hand as he settles back. “I usually just wait in the car in the morning. It’s nice to get out the house. I smoke some fags, read a bit of–”

Oh fuck.

 _Oh_ _fuck._

Billy catches himself just in time. _I’m not meant to read in my spare time,_ he thinks wildly. _This is the one thing I’m meant to be **bad** at._

“Uh. Porn.” He finishes.

He freezes.

He stares at his knees with wide eyes.

Porn?

Fucking _porn?_ Could he think of nothing else?

Nothing but mother-fucking porn?

There's silence.

“Uh.” Steve tries.

Billy flushes in one hot second. All the blood in his body rushes to his head as if he’s been tipped upside down.

For lack of anything better, he clears his throat and glances out the window.

“Damn.” Steve laughs. “That set you up for the day or something? No wonder you’re like a jack in the box during basketball.” He laughs again, light and breezy.

Billy turns, shocked, and breaks into a grin at Steve’s face. He's pink-cheeked and amused: teasing.

“Dunno what to tell you, amigo.” Billy shrugs, all casual. “Should try it. Really wakes you up.”

Steve laughs a little louder, bubbly and bright. Billy’s voice is still rough in the morning, but he joins in anyway.

“Man, Nancy really hated that shit.” Steve sighs happily. “She’d be all, ‘ _it teaches men to look at us in a negative way’_ and whatnot. But you know the models get paid for it!” He defends. “I’m sure they probably enjoy it, too.”

“Fuck Nancy Wheeler.” Billy states, with a little more venom that Steve’s comment necessities. At Steve’s raised eyebrows, he tacks on, “It’s a damn career like any other. And I don’t know ‘bout you, but I can tell the difference between porn and real life.”

“Exactly.” Steve waves a hand, and then he flushes a little darker. “I mean. Not that I –”

Billy chuckles, low and dark. “Don’t worry, Pretty Boy. I ain’t Wheeler. I’m not about to castrate you if you tell me you read porn mags.”

Steve gives him a funny little look, all considering like. “Pretty Boy? Still going with that?”

Billy realises the word just slipped out. He hadn’t even meant for it to.

Steve’s gaze is calculating, as if he thinks he’s figured something out.

“It’s a joke.” Billy states. His voice is hard and not a little bitter. “You forget what a joke is?” He needs to move his hands; starts pulling out a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket and his lighter from the other.

“Nope.” Steve pops. He waits a beat, then just as Billy’s lit up he says, “You ever read the gay ones?”

Billy chokes. He drops his cigarette onto his lap. “Fuck fuck fuck –” He hisses in pain, tears stinging his eyes as he picks it up with quick fingers.

“Sorry!” Steve yelps, even though he did nothing.

There’s ash on his jeans, but thankfully no hole. Billy brushes it off quickly, waves a hand to Steve as if _no problem, amigo_ even though his pulse is racing a mile a minute _._ He sticks the cig back in, sucks in a shaky drag.

 _Jesus fucking Christ,_ is all his brain is running with right now.

Billy had hoped – maybe even assumed, fantasised, that Steve must be a little something, what with them being mates and, well. Billy certainly being queer.

He thought that maybe Steve’s not queer; not yet.

He didn’t expect _this_.

“You.” Billy’s voice comes out in a thin, dry rasp, like an eighty-year-old. He clears his throat. “You. You read gay porn?”

Steve shrugs, though there’s a tell-tale heat working up his throat. He glances away. “Sometimes, ya know, just for fun. Keeps life interesting, a bit of both.” He doesn’t meet Billy’s eyes, though. “Human curiosity, isn’t it?”

Damn. Maybe Hawkins is a little more progressive than Billy first thought.

“Hear, hear.” Billy nods, though his voice is still sounding about sixty years older than it is. “Couldn’t agree more.”

Billy, actually, couldn’t agree any fucking less. Coupled with the fact that Billy’s never owned a porn mag in his life is the fact that Billy certainly doesn’t find both interesting.

As they’ve established, he’s as queer as they come.

This situation is spiralling out of fucking control. Billy can feel an oncoming hernia.

“Yeah?” Steve looks not a little bit relieved. Looks a whole lot relieved, if Billy is guessing right.

Billy really can hardly believe they’re having this conversation. That he is literally exchanging these words with Steve Harrington.

“So—” Steve starts.

There’s a rap on the window.

Billy and Steve both startle, whip around to find Max with a backpack slung over her shoulder and her arms crossed.

“What the hell is going on?” She asks, muffled through the windshield.

Steve gapes like a fish.

“Harrington’s taking us to school.” Billy grins widely.

She eyes them both distrustfully. “Since when?”

“Since now.” Billy replies, simple.

Max huffs and climbs into the back. “Hi, Steve.” She says absent-mindedly.

Billy raises his brows, turns from Steve to Max and back again.

Max speaks first, shrugging. “He hangs out with Dustin, Mike, Lucas and Will.”

“And they’re all …” Billy tries.

“In my class.” Max answers.

Billy raises his brows at Steve. “We need to get you better friends, Stevie.”

Steve huffs, turns his keys, and reverses them out.

So that’s how Steve Harrington drives Billy and Max to school.

After Steve drops them off, Billy gets a few curious glances thrown his way over the fact he’s not stepping out his signature Camaro.

Maybe it’s also because Steve also comes around to his side, claps his shoulder with, ‘See ya!’ And carries on his merry way.

The whole parking lot stares.

The most interested party being, of course, Tommy and Carol.

“Hey.” Tommy barks out to Billy when they fall in step on their way inside, Carol close behind. “You hang out with Harrington now?”

“Maybe.” Billy answers, turns the corners of his mouth down casually.

Tommy radiates frustration and confusion and, oddly, betrayal.

Billy never thought they were all that close — both Tommy and him, or Steve and Tommy. So he’s no clue where the betrayal is being directed, but he sure as hell hopes it’s not at him. He’s got a funny fucking feeling that it is, though.

“What’s the issue with you and Harrington?” Billy asks. Mostly because he’s curious.

“He’s using you, you know.” Tommy answers instead, tight with irritation.

Now that, Billy just didn’t expect.

He slows down to turn his head, stares at Tommy and his skittish gaze, his awkward shift of foot.

Billy opens his mouth. He would say _, no he’s not_.

He would say, _Steve barely knows the meaning of the word. You’d only need to spend about five minutes with him to realise that. Underneath all that fucking bravado and charm, he’s as naive as they come and dorky enough to still be hot. There’s nothing else there._

_Steve dropped that bravado a while back. That’s why he’s in the shit he’s in; with no friends, no girlfriend, no crown, no reputation, nothing. How blind as a fucking bat are you?_

But something about the way Tommy says it, the insinuation in his voice — as though using people is something so beneath him — pulls Billy up short.

“Yeah?” Billy raises one brow this time. “Aren’t you doing that too?”

Tommy rears back as though he’s been slapped. “No.” He says. “I thought you were cool, man.” He frowns. “I thought we were cool.”

Ridiculously, he’s telling the truth. It pours off of him in waves.

Billy isn’t exactly familiar with the feeling of regret. He recognises it easily, though. It’s instantaneous, hot and squirming and a lot stronger than Billy would’ve expected for this situation.

Tommy Hagan isn’t anything special, they barely have anything in common, and Billy is leaving this godforsaken town in a couple short months.

But there’s nothing other than the truth coming out his mouth. Steady-pulsed, earnest-gazed, truth.

All Tommy has ever wanted from Billy is friendship. There’s never been an ulterior motive.

Billy feels like shit. He wonders what happened between him and Steve. Wonders if Tommy is different to all the slack-jawed idiots around here, and that’s why him and Steve were even friends in the first place.

Tommy took Billy under his wing the first day — Billy had figured that was to benefit himself and his own image, but now he thinks he might be wrong. He thinks Tommy did it because in his head, it would benefit Billy.

Billy reaches out and clips his round the head. “Me too!” He laughs. “Jeez, loosen up.”

The scent of relief explodes off Tommy, until Billy says, “But I pick my own friends, got it?”

Tommy’s scent sours, an annoyance he quickly buries deep and nods quick.

Billy will wrangle it out of Steve, somehow. If Tommy is this cut up about Billy being friends with him, there’s a reason. It’s bigger than high-school popularity politics.

They walk into Hawkins High together, same as usual, but Billy means it this time when he says he’ll see them at lunch. And Tommy and Carol walk off hand-in-hand, a wave each as they go. Maybe they’re good company to keep.

But when the day is over and Billy is done playing nice with the teachers and the lunch ladies and the pretty girls, he exhales a slow breath as he walks over to Steve’s car, already anticipating the way the sight of Steve will wash away all of today’s frustrations.

Only to see Dustin, Max, and two other kids all leaning against Steve’s car. He’s guessing these two are some variation of Mike/Will/Lucas.

Billy slows to a stop.

“He’s not taking you all home.” Billy states. Because he’s not.

“Uh.” A voice says from behind him.

Billy turns to find Steve with a sheepish expression. “Are you serious?”

At the very least, Billy still gets the front.

“Why does _he_ get the front?” Dustin complains, squashed between Max and another kid. His face is red, and his eyes keep darting to Max.

So do the two other boys, Billy notes. He glares at them in the rear-view mirror, and they gulp like cartoons whenever they notice.

“Cause I say so.” Steve says, bright and cheery.

Billy watches their back and forth. It’s easy and natural as it was that night when they all hunted the nightmare thing.

A ‘lizard slug’, Dustin called it. He hadn’t even been fucking _sure_. And they’d trekked into the woods with two buckets of meat and a bat. No Plan B.

Hawkins is a lot weirder than Billy expected. A lot fucking weirder.

He’s not going to think about the creature. He's adamant about that. If it’s some species native to Hawkins that the townspeople have to routinely curb in numbers, Billy thinks he might be happier not knowing. And he means that in all seriousness.

If he’s here any longer, he might just find a bag thrown over his head and wake in the middle of the woods to some initiation into a satanic monster-hunting cult.

So, for now, he’ll live in ignorant bliss until that day.

And at least he can attempt to bury the strange exhilaration he felt in watching Steve stand over the creature, a snarl on his face, a wild glint in his eyes as he brought his bat down.

If Steve Harrington turns out to be a lot crazier than Billy expected, he doesn’t want to think about how much deeper he’s going to sink because of it.

Dustin grumbles. But then they’re pulling up outside his house and all the boys are scrambling out the car as though it’s on fire. They fall on top of one another to get away from Max.

Billy holds up a finger to Steve, and then neatly exits the car.

He crosses his arms over his chest as the waits for them all to assemble. When they do, the three of them freeze up at seeing Billy.

“Any of you touch her.” Billy states sweetly. “I’ll kill you.”

The black kid gulps. Dustin just blinks.

The other one, the scrawny little thing, hardens all over.

“Is this you being protective or controlling?” He spits. “She doesn’t even like you, you know.”

Billy knows this. Of course he does. He doesn’t like Max either. And he’d say as much to her face.

She would say it back.

But hearing it from somebody else – knowing Max said it to somebody other than him – feels a bit like a punch to the jaw.

He doesn’t know why; it doesn’t make much sense. He never imagined Max would talk rainbows and sunshine about him. He knew that if Max made friends, she’d tell them all about her big bad asshole Alpha stepbrother.

So why this? Why this feeling like it’s come as a shock?

Something of his surprise must show, because the scrawny one eases up. He gives a huff, grabs his friends, and drags them into the house.

_Is this you being protective or controlling?_

_Everything I do, Billy, I do for your own good. Remember that._

There’s a tap.

Billy jerks to see Steve stretched over the passenger seat rapping on his window. “Coming?”

Billy climbs back in.

Max is sullen and silent in the back. Billy glances at her in the mirror, swallows and glances away.

He’s never hurt her. He’s never raised a hand.

_She doesn’t even like you._

Obviously. Why should she? This isn’t new information.

Steve pulls up outside his place.

“Thanks, Steve.” Max manages a flash of a smile, and then her gaze settles on Billy and it disappears.

She climbs out and doesn’t glance back to see if Billy follows or not.

“Billy?”

Billy blinks and turns to look at Steve.

Steve’s face is soft, open, as if he knows.

Billy clears his throat. “Well, thanks for the ride. I’m sure this’ll really solidify our story.”

“I am nothing if not thorough.” Steve remarks, and Billy snorts.

“Yeah?” Billy asks. “What’d you do with that freaky little thing you killed, then?”

He didn’t mean to just come out with it; needed a distraction and used that. But Steve’s expression changes. The light in his eyes dims instantly. “What we usually do. Bury it and hope it doesn’t come back.”

They can _come back?_

Billy opens his mouth, eyes wide.

“Look.” Steve runs a hand through his hair. “I’m not exactly allowed to give you the fully story. And by that, I mean I was outvoted by a landslide. I can give you the abridged version, but.” Steve swallows, looks at Billy. “Well. If you really want to know all the gory details, you might want to win over the kids.”

Billy stares, aghast. “The — the fuckin’ _kids?”_

Steve nods solemnly. “Yup.”

Billy stares for a little longer. “Steve.” He states, hard and fast. “I’m not really planning on sticking around Hawkins for long. I just need to know if they’re going to be a problem, or if the town has it under control.”

Steve bites his lip. “Can I get back to you on that one?”

Billy stares at him, flat.

“I’m serious.” Steve says. “I genuinely don’t have an answer. Ask me in a week.” And then, absurdly, Steve exhales and starts driving them out. “Well, at least —”

“Hey, woah.” Billy scrambles in his seat. “Where we going?”

Steve gives him a look, confused. “My place? Remember? English lessons for Alpha lessons?”

“Steve.” Billy says slowly. “I can’t really be out two nights in a row. Just drop me off.”

Steve keeps driving. “It’ll be fine. I know what to do.” He says, all casual, like his hypnosis is a normal thing. “Plus, you promised me two days ago that you’d explain why I can still – do stuff to people. So I’m cashing in.”

Which is how Billy finds himself surrounded by English textbooks, Steve bent in half over one as he chews on his bottom lip.

“Themes of the gothic … which was becoming popular in the Victorian Era …” Steve glances up to Billy from his lap. “Is Jane Eyre a horror?” His face convulses with a frown. “Did you get that?”

Billy curbs his tongue on, _yes, Steve, I got that from a novel about a man keeping his wife in the attic who attacks people at night._

“Haven’t exactly got that far.” Billy lies. “I think the chick just met him, or something.”

After Billy says that, though, he remembers they meet quite far into the novel – once Jane’s whole shit of a childhood is over with. Billy should have gone with something a bit dumber, but how dumb is _dumb?_

God, he’s not fucking smart, is he? Maybe in Hawkins he is.

He hopes only in Hawkins he is.

“But isn’t it a romance …” Steve’s eyes scan the page. It’s clear he’s never picked up a textbook in his life. Maybe he hasn’t even picked up the book.

He’s too goddamn spoiled; he needs some sense kicked up his ass. How the fuck has he gotten by this long on not even reading the book? The essay is due _next week._

Billy seriously needs to curb the urge to tutor _Steve_.

“Would you rather do this later?” Billy asks. “Get all your Alpha questions out, then we can do this.” He waves to the textbooks.

“But I need to hold up my end of the bargain.” Steve reasons, blinks those wide eyes at him. “Otherwise it’s not fair, right?”

“Steve.” Billy says. “We can do questions first. Jane Eyre later.”

Steve closes his textbook gently, lays it flat atop the coffee table. He looks nervous all of a sudden. “Okay. Um. Questions. Right.”

Billy waits.

“Right. Yeah.” Steve drums his fingers restless on his knee.

“I’ll start.” Billy says. “You wanted to know why you can still dominate people even though you’re on blockers?”

Steve blinks, and then he nods.

“It’s because your instincts don’t have all that much to do with your cycle.” Billy states. “There’s no way to totally remove the Alpha in you. If I went on blockers, I’m guessing I wouldn’t be able to do as much as I can now, but I could still use my instincts. They’re there, just harder to find.” He exhales from his nose. “So, you’re working at about 50% capacity right now with them.”

Steve nods. “Okay. Alright. And it’s normal?”

“Totally fucking normal.” Billy assures.

“I mean, I _am_ on pretty strong blockers.” Steve murmurs.

Billy bites his tongue on asking, _yeah, but when can you stop them? When are you off them for good? When will you even know?_

“So, I guess everybody on blockers can still use their instincts. It’s not a bad thing.” Steve seems to be talking to himself, eyes darting every which way.

“Steve.” Billy starts, gently. He has to curl his fingers to resist reaching out. “It’s never a goddamn bad thing. You’re an Alpha. Sooner or later you’ll need to face the music. You can’t run from it.”

“I don’t want –” Steve starts, but cuts himself off with a huff. “I don’t even know what it means to be an Alpha. I don’t know any of this.” He gives another frustrated burst of breath, jaw clenched.

“You will.” Billy replies. “I’ll teach you. Talk you through the basics. Scenting, cycle, you name it.”

Steve peers at him curiously. “Scenting?”

Billy swallows the lump that forms in his throat. “Yup. It’s what pack do. Families. Couples. Even friends, sometimes.”

Billy isn’t speaking from experience right now, but it’s not as though Steve will know. He can’t even imagine his scent on somebody else, or how that would feel. Comforting. Soothing. Or so he hears.

“I’m guessing you don’t … pee on them.” Steve grimaces.

Billy can’t help it. He bursts out laughing.

“ _God_ , what fuckin’ books you been reading?” He howls.

Steve flushes like a tomato. “I don’t know! Isn’t scent marking something dogs do?”

“Jesus, Steve, nobody’s gonna fucking pee on you.” He giggles high like a little kid, because Steve really cracks him up sometimes.

“I didn’t –” Steve starts.

“Look, when I first met you, you were scent-marked by Wheeler.” Billy carries on, before Steve can make this any more ridiculous.

That pulls Steve up short. “I was?”

Billy nods. “Yeah. Just enough to know you spent a lot of time together. That you guys were close, you know. Physically.” He clears his throat on that, uncomfortable.

Steve’s face is soft and open.

It hurts a little to look at, but Billy forces himself to.

“She scent-marked me.” Steve murmurs.

“Yeah.” Billy repeats, stupidly, and tries to think of something to add. “It’s like a show of affection. Like sharing clothes.”

And then Billy abruptly remember that monster hunt.

Steve offered Billy his jacket, draped it around his shoulders before he could so much as protest. Is that a bad example? Or does sharing clothes mean something different to Billy than it does to Steve?

Or does …

Steve smiles, soft. “I get it. It’s nice. I wish I knew what it was like. You know, to be able to scent all that.”

“You will.” Billy states, a little hard. He wants it for Steve, wants it when he sees the longing caught up in Steve’s expression. “You will, Steve.”

Steve snorts. “If only it didn’t come with an added period.”

Billy wrinkles his nose. “Quit calling it a period. _Betas_ have periods. Alphas have ruts and they’re fine. Omegas have heats. Circle of life and all that shit. Nobody gets through intact.”

Steve gazes at him, swallows. “So you. You have a rut, right?”

Billy flashes some teeth. “Yup. Same as every other Alpha up and down the country. It’s at the end of the month for me.”

Steve blinks, surprised. “But. What’s your plan? Isn’t that really soon?”

Billy frowns. “Same as always. Hole up in my room and wait for it to be over.”

“But is it not …” Steve searches for the words. “Painful?”

The look on his face has Billy wondering if Steve’s built it up into this terrible awful thing in his head – which may or may not be Billy’s entire fault.

“It’s a little uncomfortable, Steve, yeah.” Billy says, slow and even. “But you don’t need to do anything other than get through it. There’s no, ya’ know.” He waves a hand to his general person. “Threat to my health or nothing.”

Steve worries his lip between his teeth as he digests the information. He avoids Billy’s gaze. “What does it feel like?” He finally asks, eyes on his ground, picking a thread in his sock. “What. What’s uncomfortable about it?”

Billy kind of expected this question, sure.

He still finds himself heating all over at having to answer it.

“It’s like. Uh. This – kinda terrible itch everywhere.” Billy stutters out. He clears his throat and starts again. “Working out or – or jerking off or scratching yourself does nothing.” He’s definitely flushed over his whole face now. “It’s like your body doesn’t know what it wants. It’s like it’s not even your body anymore, it doesn’t belong to you. Because all you can think about day and night is going out and searching the ends of the Earth for. You know.”

Steve leans a little forward, encouraging.

“Your mate.” Billy finishes lamely.

He feels like a fraud, like a _liar_ , saying this to Steve when he knows his own mate is sat right across from him, eyes wide and posture open.

He’s not lying, he’s not, but the words that should be coming out his mouth is, ‘ _search the ends of the earth for **you**.’_

“Your what?” Steve asks.

Christ.

Billy shouldn’t be surprised.

At this point, he really shouldn’t.

“You’ve never heard of it?” He asks slowly, patiently, just to make sure.

Steve shakes his head.

“It’s like.” Billy inflates his chest on an inhale, let’s go of it slowly. “It’s the perfect complement to you. A soulmate, if you will.”

Steve’s mouth pops open. “We have a _soulmate?”_

Billy’s throat is tight, constricting. _Yes. It’s me. I’m yours. You’re mine._

“Yes.” His voice comes out like he’s being strangled.

“Does everyone? Is it just Alphas? How do we find them? _Where_ do we find them? What age does–”

“Steve.” Billy holds his hand up. “I’m gonna cut you off right there. Mates are pretty hard to track down, and most people don’t really imagine they’ll find theirs, never mind freaking plan to.” It’s still the truth, even if it does taste bitter because it’s not exactly the truth for _Steve_.

Because Billy is right fucking _here_.

“Everybody has one, sure, but the world’s a big place.” Billy continues, a little throaty now. “Truth of the matter is they’re not all that common.”

He hopes Steve doesn’t notice how weak the words sound.

Because it’s the truth. It _is_.

It just feels like such a lie.

Steve deflates in seconds. “But … but if you’re always going to be searching –”

“Oh.” Billy understands Steve’s sudden dejection and waves a hand. “Nah, after you spend a cycle with somebody your instincts calm down.” It’s always been known to happen; it’s what everybody says happens. You’ll only search for your mate as long as you want to. If you fall in love, regardless of who with, all that shit falls away.

Wouldn’t be fair on anyone if it didn’t.

“You can bond to anyone no problem.” Billy carries on. “It’s only like that for un-bonded Alphas and Omegas cause our instincts are all over the place. But once you bond, or at least find somebody you want to bond with, you’re golden.”

“Are you …” Steve starts.

“Bonded?” Billy laughs. “No. Not anytime soon.”

 _Not unless you realise what’s right in front of you in a month’s time_ , he doesn’t add.

It’ll be fine. He’ll be fine. This rut will be fine. It’ll just like all the others.

He’ll lock his door, stock up on food, try and read some books, and do 100 press-ups every day.

It won’t be the end of the world. It’ll be a regular fucking week.

He’s not going to tear down Hawkins looking for Steve. That’s one thing he’s not going to do.

“But I’m kinda lost here.” Steve says with a scratch to his head. “If our instincts settle when we bond, how do we know that person isn’t our mate?”

Right.

“Because.” Billy tries. He has to swallow, throat gone suddenly tight. “It’s a specific feeling, when you meet them.” He coughs. “Sure, I mean I could pick up any random person off the street, and if they were up for it, we could try to bond. Not to say it would always be _successful_ , cause sometimes it fails, but it usually works. Uh.” He coughs again, aware he’s rambling like an idiot. “With your mate, you.” Billy has to pause for a moment, remembering the locker room; the heat, the prickling all over. “As soon as you meet them, you know.” He murmurs. His voice deepens, a rough croak. “It’s different for everybody, obviously. But most people always talk about the need to be closer to them, and the knowledge that the person you’ve just met is your mate. You just … _know_.” Billy’s fists curl, and he swallows and relaxes them. “There’s no way to prove it, but you don’t need proof. You know.”

Steve looks at him in wonder. “Isn’t that like when we met?”

Billy’s whole chest lurches.

He near chokes on his tongue.

“ _What?”_ He thumps a hand over his ribcage.

“No?” Steve looked panicked. “Just – I figured it was an Alpha thing, because I’d never met another Alpha, and as soon as I saw you it was like I knew you, I wanted to be closer to you, it was like there was this insane itch in my bones that I’d never felt that–”

Steve cuts himself off.

He stares, wide-eyed, at a distant point behind Billy’s head.

Billy stares. “Steve?”

“We’re mates.” Steve says. His eyes zero in on Billy with unwavering focus.

Billy freezes over.

His heart leaps up his throat to pound the roof of this mouth.

“We are.” Steve repeats, surer this time.

Billy does nothing. He can’t move.

“Did you know as well?” Steve asks. His voice is curiously calm and flat.

“Steve.” Billy rasps, totally stiff. “I can’t be sure, okay? You’re on blockers. I don’t even know if we are right now.” He wants to reach out, to touch Steve, to comfort him in some way, but he’s paralysed.

“But … what does this mean?” Steve’s face is gradually growing redder and redder until it basically resembles a plum, eyes wide and stark with shock. “We’re _mates_. You just said that’s basically like having a soulmate.”

Billy never imagined he would hear Steve Harrington say those words, especially not on a Tuesday afternoon sat on his living room floor across English textbooks. 

“It doesn’t have to mean anything.” Billy rushes out. The words come out like sludge in a dream, come out like garbled nonsense over the pounding in Billy’s head.

He needs to yank up his defences; needs to make it clear to Steve that everything he’s done and said isn’t because Billy madly and insanely wants them to be mates. Needs to cover up every little incriminating detail he left behind him like breadcrumbs.

Because Steve, right fucking now, isn’t exactly looking overjoyed at the prospect.

He’s looking shell-shocked, and for some reason absolutely _mortified_.

“What?” Steve’s face crumples in confusion, still beetroot. “It doesn’t have to _mean anything?_ What are you talking about?”

“There are platonic mate bonds.” Billy explains, trying to salvage this, trying to come up with something, _anything_ , to salvage at least the friendship he has with Steve.

He’ll take that, just until he leaves for California.

Maybe it’s a one-sided bond. They must have happened throughout history. There can’t be something that has just _never_ happened before. Knowing Billy’s goddamn luck, maybe he’ll be the fucking first.

“I thought you said I’d need you during my rut.” Steve’s voice is hard, like he’s picking holes in all of Billy’s excuses. “That I would look for you like crazy or something.”

Even the thought of being with Steve during his rut. Even the entire whole sentence that Steve just said.

 _Jesus Christ,_ Billy might just pass out.

“Not if we’re a platonic bond.” Billy scrambles, unticks his tongue enough to speak despite the fact he knows his whole head is hot and projecting heat. “I can be there to help, to settle your instincts, but that could mean just being in the same house. And even then, you might not need me there. Us meeting each other might have been enough; it usually is for platonic mates.” Billy knows he’s rambling but he’s no clue how to stop.

“Wait.” Steve cuts him off sharp. “ _You_ think it’s a platonic bond?”

“I – I think.” Billy tries, but his throat won’t let the words out. “I can’t be sure.” He admits, soft and punched out of him.

He’s unable to say yes. He’s unable to _lie_.

“I don’t believe this.” Steve stands up. He starts to pace the room, two steps forward, another two back around. “You knew the _whole_ _time_ and never said anything? Were you ever going to say anything?” He throws his eyes to Billy, hard and cold as flint.

Billy stands up too, some desperate urge to fix this coming over him. He grits his teeth and exhales through his nose, trying to calm down.

“I was going to say when you stopped the blockers.” He manages.

Because Billy had this whole romantic notion in his head.

This whole fantasy he’d see Steve the day Steve is finally off blockers.

Billy would be able to scent him, scent him miles away, and they would both just _know_ , instantly; they would make their way towards each other and there wouldn’t need to be words. They’d experience the same euphoric rush of relief and discovery that everybody else describes. They’d be mates, finally.

If Steve ever asked, Billy could tell him that was the moment he found out about their bond as well.

Now everything is mother **_fucked_**.

He never imagined Steve felt the exact same way that Billy did the first day they met. Never imagined Steve somehow needed to be closer to Billy that day in the locker-room as well, never envisioned that was the reason for him striding over and pressing close. He thought, at the time, it was some Alpha instinct, and coupled with his strange amalgamation of scents Steve was giving off, Billy never put two and two anywhere _close_ to together.

He also never imagined Steve would react like _this_ to being told.

As if it’s the weirdest revelation on planet Earth, as if he needs to up and actually _pace_ at the goddamn news.

“But you must have felt it too.” Steve carries on, pausing. “That day we first met, in the locker room.” His eyes pierce Billy. “You must have felt that need to be close too. That there was something different happening, something you’d never felt.”

Billy flushes so hot it’s painful, hearing Steve say these words. Everything in him wants to believe Steve might be suggesting their bond is romantic, might be describing the sensations that other bonded couples have before, but Steve’s entire body language – taut, rigid, red-faced, is screaming the opposite.

He’s not exactly screaming disgust, but it’s a near thing.

Billy doesn’t know where to begin.

“I just – I couldn’t be sure.” Billy croaks. “You're on blockers, you were scent-marked by Wheeler. My instincts, they were all –” He waves a hand. “Fuckin' scrambled. I just had no goddamn clue Steve.”

That, at least, is the truth. For the first hour after they met.

Steve stares at Billy. Just stares, long and hard and processing. “Okay.”

Billy blinks. “Okay?”

Steve nods. “Okay. We wait until I’m off the blockers for good. It should be seven weeks from now, I think the doctor said. Then you'll know. We’ll know.” 

Billy feels as if he’s been struck in the ribcage. He’s breathless, reeling. He gives the barest nod, and his voice comes out in a croak. “Then we’ll know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plot things! Finally! Now this racks up the pining level by 1000. We are halfway through, people!!
> 
> I've found a couple lovely songs that have me in my Billy feels. Can post them here if people wish!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did not get the little scholarship I wanted! It’s alright, life deals you blows sometimes. I actually got two rejections in one day for the two I wanted. Life is being supremely hard at the moment! I, of course, would have loved to get a scholarship and also give Billy a scholarship and then we could be scholar bros, but alas I think I will have to make Billy a little happier than myself. Mainly because there feels like an extreme amount of sadness in the world right now, and I don’t plan to add to it. I hope you are all keeping well and safe. 
> 
> In other news, this is now the second longest fic I’ve ever written, including my other fic for this fandom. There’s just something about Billy’s personality that makes me want to pick and pick until I’ve unravelled it all. I would say we are a little over halfway, more plot things to come for sure, but the agonising pining will not continue for long ;)
> 
> Thanks everyone who comments always! It makes me smile to see you ♥️

Things, absurdly enough, begin to settle down after that.

It’s still November. Still cold as shit and especially in the morning. Billy still goes a run at 6am, still lifts weights whenever Neil isn’t around, and still trains his ass off on the court.

He’s only biding his time until the scouts start filtering after the New Year, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t need to give it his all right now.

He still avoids as much dairy, carbs, and sugar as humanly possible. Billy doesn’t exactly feel like a repeat of almost shitting himself at Steve’s house, plus it took about 50 miles in total to work off all the calories.

He didn’t put on weight.

(He didn’t exactly need to check that, but he still did).

Billy’s still hanging with Tommy and Carol too, who are less of a pain now and almost seem – tolerable. Funny. Assholes, but in a good way.

Not something Billy ever imagined he’d say, but there it is.

He hasn’t wriggled the truth from them yet, but he will. He’ll slip Steve into conversation, and it’ll only take a couple tries before one of them blows their lid on it.

After the day at Steve’s house, they’d tried to read some more of Jane Eyre. It was a total no-go. Billy could barely see the words on the page. He almost felt like Steve could hear his heartbeat, taste the blood at the back of his throat.

Eventually Steve called quits.

Billy figured that was his cue to leave: he stood up.

“What do you want to do?” Steve asked, expectant. He shut his book with a slap and glanced up at Billy.

Billy blinked, thrown. “Steve, I – I really gotta get back. It’s late. I can’t stay out forever.”

Steve’s face dropped. The movement was loud and obvious as hell. Billy’s heart gave some kind of medical lurch at the sight. At Steve visibly _not wanting him to go._

Still, Steve drove Billy back just as it was growing dark. It wasn’t yet dinnertime; Billy could still make it back before anybody noticed.

He doubted anybody had noticed.

Billy gazed out the window wondered if Max noticed. He wondered she’d seen that he stayed in the car, if she’d turned around and seen that he hadn’t come in with her, or if she locked herself in her room the minute she’d stepped inside.

It’s what Billy does when he gets home.

It’s what they both do.

Steve pulled into the driveway slowly. Billy went to leave, but Steve caught his arm.

Billy stilled, pulse beating in the back of his throat.

He thought Steve was going to say something about what happened, about them maybe or maybe not being mates, about what it meant. He was going to ask how Billy felt, _what_ Billy felt, and Billy would be powerless to –

Steve’s face grew serious. “Billy.” He said. “I don’t know what the deal is, but I don’t like your dad.” He frowned, paused. “Uh. Stepdad?”

Billy swallowed; it took a few tries. “Dad.” He confirmed.

Steve nodded. “Okay. Look. If you need me.” And his grip tightened – only slightly, imperceptibly. “I’m here.”

Billy couldn’t speak. All he could do was nod and get out the car on shaky legs.

He felt Steve’s eyes on him all the way to the front door.

In the space of possibly five full minutes the other day, Steve managed to piece together more than any teacher, friend, girlfriend or _living adult_ had in Billy’s life.

It almost hurt, but in a strangely good way. To be known. To be seen. As if Billy had been picked apart, but only to get rid of the rotten.

It felt good. Billy felt clean.

When he entered the living room, Neil was at in front of the TV. Billy braced for impact – all the tendons of his shoulders and legs tensed, all his teeth came together for a fight.

“Billy.” Neil said, neutral. “You’re back.” His eyes didn’t stray from the screen.

Billy stared in disbelief.

It hadn’t been a fluke.

Steve really was a fucking sorcerer.

“You can take out the trash and get started on dinner.” Neil carried on.

Alright. So not totally transformed.

But not exactly an ugly duckling, either.

Billy could live with this. Billy could do more than live; he could freaking _thrive_. He could do everything that he’s been half-assing for the past three years. He could practise at more convenient times; he could stay out later– fuck, he could see _Steve_ whenever he so much as fucking pleased.

He could have a _life_.

Billy bounced over to the kitchen and started pulling out pasta. Simple enough. Maybe he’d ask Max how school was. She liked pasta. He’ll make her favourite.

There was a flash at the front window. Headlights being turned off and on. Billy turned but he couldn’t see anything, could only hear the sound of tires rolling over gravel. Of Steve leaving.

_I’m here._

Steve hadn’t meant that metaphorically. He’d meant _I am literally and physically here._

He’d waited.

Fuck, Billy is screwed.

*

They don’t talk about it much. They don’t actually talk about it at all. Why should they? There’s nothing to talk about.

They’re both waiting. They both don’t know for sure. They both had totally different reactions to meeting one another. And there’s no way to know for certain, no way to even prove it. There’s only a vague sense, a story fed to them from books growing up, from gossip and hearsay and shitty folklore.

Steve doesn’t seem up for discussing it, even though everything in Billy burns to ask, just to hear it one more time. Steve wanted to be closer to him. He’d felt a pull: some kind of pull.

He’d felt like he _knew_ _Billy_. He felt something the moment their eyes met, and Billy is half terrified at this point that he just fucking _dreamed up_ hearing that information.

But Steve doesn’t bring it up, shuts down any subtle attempts from Billy to. He’ll change the conversation as fast as he can take another breath, then smile wide when Billy gives him a look like he knows what Steve is doing.

Billy caught Steve struggling to fit three extra books into his locker. He figured it was this English tutoring nonsense again and stomped over to help, to tell Steve firmly and gently that Billy really, seriously did not need a tutor. That he’s probably the last person in this sorry place that does.

Only he caught sight of one of the covers, _the phenomenon of the mate_ _bond_ , before Steve yelped and scrambled to press his back to it.

“Hey.” Steve gasped, unconvincing. “What’s up?”

Billy felt like his tongue was caught in a cheese grater. He stared, owlish and dumb. “What –”

“Anyway, are you coming!” Steve said as though they were already in the middle of a conversation. He slammed his locker shut, gave it a look, and plastered on a grin. “Let’s go!” Then he slapped Billy’s arm and started walking.

Billy got the message loud and clear. One shalt not ask Steve Harrington about possibly being mates with him.

And Billy gets it. He does. He knows if he randomly found out one day that some dude might just be his _soulmate_ ; he’d have a minor freak-out.

Especially if he wasn’t attracted to the guy and was reading books about the distinct certainty that he was.

Platonic mate bonds are rarer than romantic ones. And really, not all that necessary either. Why bond with a friend when you could with a lover?

They only sprung about as a result of a myriad of different factors, sexualities, environments and cosmic fate. They’re not exactly extinct yet, but they’re less and less common nowadays.

Steve must know they’re more likely to be romantic mates than anything.

He _must_.

But it’s fine. Steve is wrapping his head around it. Billy isn’t about to push, to shatter this tentative peace with some ill-timed quip that’s sure to land like an atomic bomb.

He can give Steve this time, this space, to figure out how he feels about the possibility of Billy being his mate. Because there’s no proof: no way to really _know_.

Billy gets it.

Even though he already knows, has known since that first day when the scent of somebody else on Steve crawled up his nose and died, when he realised Steve was on blockers and instantly the warring instincts to shove close to Steve and tear his own hair out made perfect sense.

He’s known since the Halloween party, since the time up at the quarry, since the hunt, since the sleepover afterwards. He’s known and known and _known_ and will keep knowing until the end of time.

But it takes two to tango.

He needs to wait for Steve. Whatever the decision may be.

*

“Steve, I’m serious.” Billy starts halfway to class. “You can’t keep hanging around with those kids 24/7. People are gonna talk.”

Steve turns to gape in that guilelessly dumbstruck way – which _should_ look stupid, but instead it just comes across as kind of sweetly naïve. His feet slow of their own accord. “Huh? What are people saying? Have you heard what people are saying?”

“Relax.” Billy assures. “Nothing yet. But I do get asked by Tommy ‘bout a million times a day who you’re friends with now.”

Steve’s face goes hard and sour. “Tommy Hagan. He’s a dick.”

Billy lifts a perfectly poised eyebrow; only lightly interested to the rest of the world. “Oh yeah? How so?”

“How so?” Steve explodes. “He’s – he totally _ruined_ me and Nancy’s relationship – I mean, we got back together afterwards and then we broke up again last week …” Steve trails off, his feet at an almost stop now as he frowns. “And … he said some mean shit …” But Steve sounds less and less convinced the longer he goes on.

Billy doesn’t really need the rest of the story to get the picture.

Tommy gave Steve some hard truths, tried to warn him against Wheeler, and it backfired big time.

Steve’s just been too sore and sensitive to realise it.

“Have lunch with us.” Billy punches Steve’s arm as he turns to go to class. “We’ll save you a seat.”

He leaves Steve still frowning at the floor.

Sure enough, lunch rolls around. Tommy is pulling some spectacular impression of Mrs Brown and Billy is snorting broccoli soup up his nose – the only thing he’s deemed relatively safe to eat from the canteen, because seriously pre-made lunches are a goddamn pain – when there’s a quiet cough at his shoulder.

Billy turns.

Steve is standing with a tray in both hands and a sheepish expression.

“Hey. Mind if I join?”

Tommy and Carol stare, speechless. Tommy drops the fry he’d been gesturing with.

“Yeah.” Billy beams wide and scoots over. Steve settles himself in by Billy’s side, a warm and familiar presence.

Steve smiles at him, which dims a little when he focuses on Tommy.

Tommy blinks. Then he huffs and looks across the canteen.

There’s a beat where neither Billy nor Carol know what the fuck to do. They’re definitely playing the role of the new partner at a family gathering, but the family haven’t spoken in years.

“So –” Carol starts.

Steve slides a pot of something across the table towards Tommy.

Tommy looks down, then looks up at Steve. He rolls his eyes and picks it up, ripping the lid.

Steve grins. After a second Tommy joins him.

Billy knows nobody at the table is able to scent the kinds of feelings they’re giving off, but somehow, it’s nice. He’s been around enough Alphas in California to be familiar with repressing his, and with people repressing their own. It’s weird to allow them to broadcast so loud. It’s a little like laughing at nothing or crying in public. Just a touch too personal.

Supressing the pheromones you give off is a strange mental process that clearly nobody in Hawkins learned.

Because Carol is relief tampered with a little frustration, and Tommy is pure happiness. It’s so strong its sticks to the hairs up Billy’s nose.

“You and Wheeler done then?” Tommy asks, gruff, shoulders at his ears. If Steve weren’t on blockers, he’d see through the façade like glass. Billy suspects he already does, though.

“Yup.” Steve pops the word. He starts on his own lunch. “She dumped my ass. Probably for Jonathan. Never said as much, but I can put two and two together.” He grimaces. “I mean, I didn’t exactly help things.”

“Jesus, Steve, stop defending her for five fucking minutes.” Tommy leans forward in his seat. “The whole school knows what happened already, we’re just waiting for your say so before we really –”

Steve holds up a hand. “Tommy, man. Much as I appreciate it, it’s not gonna change anything. Just let her be.”

Tommy settles back, irritated.

He’s angry, but not at Steve – _for_ Steve. There’s sadness, or more like pity, _sympathy_ , and a restless desire to act on the injustice.

And Billy gets it. He understands.

Nothing that Billy’s scenting, however, can’t also be seen from Tommy’s entire body.

“I say to hell with Wheeler.” Billy announces, lifts his milk up in a toast. “Her loss.”

Steve blinks, surprised. Then he huffs a breath of a laugh.

“I agree.” Carol chimes in, propping her chin on a fist. “I’ll never see how Byers is an upgrade.”

“Right!” Billy throws a hand up. “That’s what I’ve been saying!”

Steve snorts a little louder. “Come on guys, I’m sure he’s nice enough –”

“Maybe he’s dying.” Tommy pipes up. “Maybe that’s what this is. One man’s dying wish, and she’s been sworn to secrecy.”

Steve falls away into a fit of laughter at that, and then conversation runs on easy.

Billy is loading up his locker when there’s a touch to his back, just a little above the base of his spine.

He turns quick.

“Hey.” Steve smiles. “Thanks.”

Billy grins. “What I’m here for.” He holds both arms open.

He expects Steve to grin wider, not frown and pull his hand away as if burnt. “Was that because of the bond or something –”

Billy frowns right along with him. “Huh? No, no, no, I meant.” He steps closer, clears his throat and glances around. “I meant.” Billy holds Steve’s eye. “I’m here, Steve.”

Steve is still frowning. “I don’t –”

Billy catches his wrist. “Why’d you stay in the car after you dropped me off?”

Steve goes mute.

Billy gives him a little shake. “See? I get it. Same goes. I’m here Steve. Doesn’t matter when – we’re _friends_. Yeah?”

Understanding dawns, lights up Steve’s face. “Oh.”

“So, I’m gonna be on your ass twenty-four-seven.” Billy adds.

Steve laughs again. “Well.” He rubs at the nape of his neck, sheepish. “Thanks then. For that.” He tips his head as if gesturing back in time, and then he blinks. “And for what you said when you crashed at my place.” He smiles, sudden. “You kinda have a knack for cheering me up, dude.” He bumps their shoulders with a laugh.

Billy’s cheeks heat, but he coughs and turns around to hide it. “Anytime, Harrington.”

“Is that part of the bond?” Steve asks, soft.

Billy freezes.

Steve hasn’t brought it up. Not once. Not even a casual inquiry. And Billy can tell how much it’s been eating at Steve to hold it inside.

Still. No matter what happens when Steve comes off the blockers, however Steve reacts to their bond, Billy needs him to know something.

He turns to look Steve square in the eye. “We don’t have a bond, Steve. If we did, we would know about it. There’s just the possibility we might have one.” He swallows. “So all this?” He waves a hand between them. “This has nothing to do with our instincts. I’m not being forced to feel some type of way. Okay? I _want_ to be friends.”

Steve looks a little stunned for a moment, mouth partway open. And then he snaps it shuts and beams at Billy. “Right.”

“Hey, idiots!” Tommy calls, and they both turn.

“Party tonight! You guys coming or what?”

Steve looks at billy, tilts his head like a question.

“Hell yeah!” Billy fist-pumps.

Steve laughs.

And Billy’s not about to get all overconfident here, not one to really toot his own horn.

But if he had to guess, he’d say Steve looked the happiest Billy’s seen him since he got to Hawkins.

*

Billy tries not to freak the fuck out about getting ready. He doesn’t want to put _too_ much effort in; it’s just a regular Friday night, nothing big, nothing new. And then it’ll be obvious he put a lot of effort in, and Steve will be able to scent his crush a mile away.

And then everything is fucked. Their friendship, Billy’s plans, everything.

Still, Steve hasn’t seen him at a party since the epic fail that was Tina’s Halloween thing, when Billy passed out in the garden, got woken up by Steve, and puked at his feet.

Literally no worse way that night could’ve gone.

He wants – no, he _needs_ Steve to see the Billy before that. Cool, popular, loved.

If he sees that, maybe this whole bond will start to look up. Maybe he’ll think, _hey, no matter what happens, if this guy turns out to be my mate, maybe it’s not so bad. He seems cool, fun, liked._

Maybe Steve will even be able to see him in a different light, maybe some different setting is just the thing that Steve needs to consider Billy that way –

And Jesus Christ, he’s pathetic. It’s not like he can force it. It’ll happen if it happens. It needs to be natural, organic. Whichever way Steve decides to accept the bond, it needs to come from _him_.

Either way, Billy opts for his blood-red shirt, only the very lower buttons done-up and the rest left open, with a leather jacket and jeans. It’s his signature _I’m trying not to care, can you see me not caring?_

He literally doesn’t own any nicer clothes. But unless somebody has physically seen inside his wardrobe, they’re not going to know that.

One of the good things about being an Alpha, of that there are fucking many, is that it’s pretty easy to pack on muscle. This is why most Alphas gravitate to sports, why they’re statistically taller (not exactly including Billy, but you can’t win ‘em all), why they’re goddamn anything – more confident, more dominating.

And when it’s easier to gain inches and pounds on your peers, it comes with a certain sense of leverage.

Billy’s always kind of enjoyed that. He likes that if nothing, he has something over the average person walking down the street. Even if it is just something as simple as good DNA.

It’s not as though Betas and Omegas are _less_ , just different. Where Alphas are naturally gifted in the field, most Betas are gifted in the classroom, Omegas in the arts. Everybody has their strengths and weakness.

The good thing about _Billy’s_ strengths is that it just makes everything go a little smoother. The douchebag act, the false charm, the performance in gym.

He might have been able to skate by on grades alone, might have worked his entire ass off for an academic scholarship, but even then – the kids that get those have been in private lessons since diapers, and Billy doesn’t stand a single chance. 

No. Being an Alpha is a gift from the gods, is a heaven-sent little package sent directly to Billy’s fucking future.

The only one drawback, the only slight negative, is this.

Billy rocks up to the party only to discover it’s at Tommy’s house. He’s welcomed with open arms and loud cheers: Tommy shoves an entire crate of beer at his chest, beams wide and sloppy and drunk, and drags him into the kitchen where half the party seem to be.

He’s arranged this whole thing because of lunch. Because he’s friends with Steve again. He’s bought an entire liquor store and invited the whole school in celebration, basically.

Jesus Christ. Not that Billy ever imagined he’d say this, but Tommy Hagan is one son of a bitch you don’t want to lose as a friend.

But Steve isn’t here yet.

And Billy’s the only Alpha in this tiny little town.

“But what’s it _like?”_ Tommy insists, while some other guy who might be Chris or might be Daniel drapes an arm along Billy’s shoulders, leering close.

“Come on, you’ve got to tell us.” The guy states. “We all get taken out during The Talk. Not fair, if you ask me.”

 _Oh yeah?_ Billy wants to snarl. _You say that about the menstrual one too?_

“Ah, I dunno.” Billy laughs, the sound weak, and tries to shrug them off. “It’s whatever, man.”

“Aw, please!” Some other stranger yells.

“Are you seriously mad horny?” Tommy presses. “You feel like you’re gonna blow up or something?”

“How many times you gotta go?”

“What if you _break_ it?”

Billy is grinding his teeth into dust inside his mouth to avoid breaking everyone here, but then Tommy is wasted, and he threw this party for Steve, and he’s alright, deep down, somewhere deep fucking down, so Billy won’t.

“Yeah, man.” Billy plays along. “It’s insane levels of riled up. Nothing helps. You just gotta ride it out.”

Three faces all gape at him with identical fish-eyed, blown up shock, because Billy just handed them exactly what they wanted.

He doesn’t feel like getting into the truth of it, though.

That a rut isn’t like that, not at all. That being horny isn’t the worst part – isn’t even close to the worst part. Comes somewhere under the sleeplessness and the hunger and the irritability.

No. It’s the mother-fucking _ache_.

The ache to find them. To have them close. To howl your fucking lungs out for them. To tear up every surface on the goddamn planet to find them.

It comes back around just as strong every single time, and every single Billy has convinced himself that he’s imagined it was that bad the last time; he’s remembering it differently. That this time he’ll be better. That this time he’ll manage through it.

And then it hits the same, every single time. It never feels any different, but somehow it always comes as a shock that it can still be this bad, even after almost four years of having ruts.

Since he was thirteen. He’s felt that way since he was thirteen.

In some ways Billy is happy Steve has never had one; happy he’s never had to spend a week clawing at his own skin and gnawing through a pillow.

Betas have a period, but only the females. The guys get off with absolutely nothing. Omegas have a heat, sure, but that’s mostly composed of nesting and napping and suffering through waiting for your mate to come.

It’s been long said that Alphas draw the shortest straw. For all the advantages they get in life, all the biological perks – Alphas have a rut, and that’s composed of needing to go out and _find your mate._

Nothing suffices. Not bouncing up and down or punching yourself or downing a bottle of drugs or jerking off. Nothing scratches the instinct to go search. Alphas get lost up all over the world during rut season, get found in the woods or naked at the fucking convivence store. It’s the worst.

And everybody knows that even despite the terrible urge, it’s best to let them suffer through it than let them run amok.

It seems crueller, maybe, but it’s better to lock an Alpha in their room rather than allow them to try and find their mate. The chances are too slim, the world is too big. There’s no point.

And Billy’s always thought that. He’s always accepted that, easy as pie, no questions asked. He’s always known that even though it’s going to suck like a _motherfucker_ , Neil will lock him in his room when it’s time and it’s better than going stark raving mad and searching every house, street, country, and continent on the damn Earth.

It’s not as though it’s Neil’s fucking favourite time either. Not as if he’s particularly forthcoming with food and water and sympathy at the door. He acts as if it’s this big issue that Billy is undertaking, not some biological process he can’t stop.

But still, even Neil seems to know when to pick his fucking times. Because he’s always kept Billy in his room. He’s always silently and stoically ignored Billy’s shouts, his screams, his pleads to be let out, his pounding against the walls.

Of course, the bathroom is a whole other issue. Neil or Susan will reluctantly let him out at that point, a two-metre distance at all times as if he’s a bomb about to go off, but they’ll ward the bathroom door and usher him back to his room.

Billy tried, once. Just when he was fifteen and it was only Susan in the house. Tried to escape. Pushed past when he saw the chance and sprinted for dear life. Tasted blood in the roof of his mouth, in shorts and a t-shirt, no shoes, no nothing.

He made it as far as the end of the neighbourhood before Susan called Neil from work.

The beating Billy got for that managed to whack the instinct right out of him.

Now, even if it is only Billy and Susan in the house during his rut, Billy still retains enough good sense to keep his eyes down and avoid any sudden movements. He knows Susan isn’t scared of him. He knows she’s scared of Neil. It doesn’t make their eye-contact any easier to swallow, still sticks to the back of his throat.

Mostly Billy keeps to his room. Only calls down to be let out when he can’t hold it in any longer, or he needs a shower because he’s sweated through his entire wardrobe. He doesn’t plead anymore. He doesn’t beg. He’s past that. He was a kid, and now he’s not. So, he shoves a sock in his mouth and rides right on through it.

It’s just something that’s always been. Billy never imagined in a million years he’d find them. He never intended to wait, to search them out, to try like most Alphas all over the world. He was always content to find somebody, somewhere down the line, settle with them and let the instinct die.

Now his rut is coming up and his mate is a couple blocks down the street. Billy really doesn’t want to be fucking discussing this, especially with half the school.

“You’ve got to have more than that!” Tommy keeps going. “I mean, a full _week?_ What the – Harrington!”

Billy spins around at the same time as Tommy.

And there’s Steve, parting the crowds like a beacon of light, his face relaxed and easy and – _happy_. Even from here Billy can tell Steve is happy.

He’s got that big, dumb smile on his face that makes Billy feel about a thousand degrees hot, and he’s coming their way, pushing through shoulders and arms to get to them.

“Hey guys.” Steve smiles, eyes flitting between them as if he wants to be in on the conversation and he’s waiting until they notice. “What’s up?”

“We’re asking Hargrove about rut season.” Tommy announces, then waggles his eyebrows ridiculously.

Steve’s face goes stuttered and closed-off. It does that when this topic comes up unexpectedly and he’s not prepared for it.

Billy opens his mouth.

“It’s killing us!” That guy – _Daniel,_ Billy’s just gonna go with – shouts. “We know you don’t get them because of those blocking things, but Billy’s actually _had_ one! He can finally answer our questions!”

They’re gathering something of a crowd; the collar of Billy’s shirt is starting to feel tight around his neck, his grin harder and harder to hold.

“It’s seriously not –” Billy starts.

“I don’t think Billy really wants to talk about this.” Steve states.

“Aw, but he’s –”

“He doesn’t want to talk about it.” Steve states, voice going low. It holds a quiet power; the guys stop.

And then Steve cracks a smile, pulls it out as if from the pantry. “He wants a _drink!_ Let’s go!” He fist-pumps like a dork – but it works.

“Fuck _yeah!”_ Cheers ring out, and then Tommy detangles himself from Billy to fetch him a drink. The others follow, and Billy never really noticed that before: that Tommy has his own little entourage, small as it might be.

Billy’s almost … _proud_. Jesus.

Until he turns away and finds Steve smiling at him.

Billy smiles back, slow and secret. “You did that on purpose.”

Steve purses his mouth, holds up two pinched fingers. “Little bit.”

Billy huffs a breathless something, knows he’s blushing right now but also knows there’s not much he can do about it at this point. “You better watch that. It’s like a goddamn weapon.”

Steve throws his eyes around the room innocently, giving a, _who, me?_

Billy laughs. Steve’s gaze resettles on Billy and he grins again, and they’re just stood grinning inches away from each other, and Billy never even noticed that they’d gravitated in the span of a couple seconds –

Because then there’s a cup in his face and Tommy inserting himself between them.

“Drink up! Let’s get this thing started!”

Billy feels one side of his face scrunch as Tommy quite literally screams that in his ear. He resists the urge to roll his eyes at the cliché lines and tosses it back. It’s not bad, some kind of punch again, and then there’s a can of beer being shoved at him, and Billy throws that back too.

He squints his eyes enough to see Steve doing the same. They finish at the same time; wrinkling their noses and grimacing. Steve laughs, and Billy joins in, and then that’s that.

Everything is better with Steve.

Music sounds better, jokes are funnier, alcohol is sweeter. Life is just fucking _more_. More exciting, vibrant, more every fucking thing. It’s as if Steve puts 3D glasses over Billy’s eyes whenever he’s around.

Billy’s seeing things how they actually should be, instead of some flat colourless version.

He wants Steve around all the time – wants his own personal pocket version to carry with him and make the world this good always.

They’re attached at the hip the whole night. Even if Billy is pulled away, or goes for a piss, or is just jostled to someplace else in the house, he’ll find Steve by this elbow in a matter of seconds. He’s a steady, solid presence, a warm heat, a comfort.

They make it back into the kitchen at some point, and they’re talking about nothing, really. Sipping beer and leaning on the counter and watching the party pass them by.

Steve doesn’t seem particularly inclined to join in the buzz, content to sit on the side-lines, and Billy is content to do pretty much anything that involves Steve.

He’s whipped. _Bad_. He’s bound and gagged.

It’s not as if Billy doesn’t have enough goddamn sense to know that, or self-awareness to be able to _see_ himself acting like a lovesick puppy.

Sadly, he’s still got both. And he knows.

But he’s pleasantly drunk, half-resting on the counter as he watches Steve run his mouth about something or other, their arms pressed together just a little, just enough. Billy hasn’t said anything for a solid three minutes as he beams sloppily up at Steve, all his attention rapt.

That’s why he doesn’t hear, at first.

It’s Steve who turns with a raised brow, a curious expression on his face.

“Huh?” Billy says.

“That thing!” Tommy waves a hand between them, staggering at the doorway. “That thing Alphas do where they dominate somebody, you know. Can you do it to each other?”

Billy blinks from Tommy to Steve, totally lost.

“Can _we_ do that to each other?” Steve points a finger between him and Billy. “Or can Alphas do it to other Alphas?”

“Oh!” Tommy’s eyes light up. “Can you guys do that? For real?”

He’s clearly too drunk to remember that Billy already _did_ – or at least, he thinks he did. He’s pretty sure he did. Billy’s drunk too. He’s not really got a clue what happened that first time he and Steve met; everything was a mess. It wasn’t a submission he got from Steve, it wasn’t a bared throat or a lowered gaze.

But it _was_ dominance Billy’s whole body screamed for.

Steve still radiates that terrible blocker scent, but it’s duller now, it’s muted, or maybe Billy is just used to it. At the time, it was a raging storm inside Billy’s head that he needed to erase. That’s why he lifted his hand.

But whether that was a fluke or whether Billy could do it again is another question.

“How do you even dominate people?” Steve laughs, looking to Billy for back-up.

And Billy, well.

He’s freaking curious.

He doesn’t know many Alphas that dominate each other, only in the odd challenge on the court or squabble over some Omega. It’s not really the done deal.

They’re a bit ridiculous to watch, really, all snarling teeth and snapping jaws. On the outside, it’s probably like watching two dogs barking at each other from across the street.

It’s not exactly done for fun, or for show. _Still_.

Billy squares up and straightens tall. Steve’s eyebrows lift. He blinks, surprised.

“Wanna try it?” Billy licks his teeth and crowds close, grinning.

Steve is stiff, frozen. “Go ahead.” He murmurs.

Billy’s never really done this when he hasn’t wanted to. He’s done it when he’s pissed off, feeling cornered, feeling threatened. He’s done it to make himself bigger. It’s a fight or flight response, it’s a knee-jerk reaction. Bare your teeth. Stand your ground.

But Steve’s posture is open, waves of calm and security and strength coming off him despite there being no scent. Billy doesn’t want to fight. He wants to surround himself in that. He wants to put his head up Steve’s sweater and have Steve’s arms come around him.

Steve’s eyes are dark and serious and focused on Billy’s face.

At a test, Billy reaches up and pushes gently fingers into Steve’s shoulder, just a little, and curls his upper lip in an approximation of a snarl.

It feels wrong. It feels _fake_. Billy doesn’t like it, fucking hates it, feels the sensation like his own fingernails down a chalkboard.

Steve laughs, sudden and bright. “You look like you swallowed something awful.”

Before Billy can even reply, Steve snatches his wrist. He lifts up off the counter a little and towers over Billy.

Billy’s heartbeat kicks into his ribs.

He can’t move his arm; it’s caught in Steve’s grip. He can’t look away.

“Isn’t it more like this?” Steve asks, soft and gentle and close to his face. Billy’s fucking light-headed. He reaches out and takes Steve’s wrist where Steve is holding him; instantly the wash of satisfaction and pure _pleasure_ has Billy curling his toes in his boots.

No; he doesn’t want to push Steve away. He wants to pull him closer.

“Yeah, but who’s winning?” Tommy says, distantly. “How do you even know?”

Billy can’t reply; feels like his tongue is glued down and his brain is fuzzy.

Steve cocks a brow. “Whoever pins the other?”

Everything kinda flies out Billy’s ears after that.

Because then Steve is pressing in close, a new intent behind his grasp on Billy’s arm, trying to push him back against the kitchen counter. Billy can’t let that happen; he needs to show Steve that he’s strong too, capable, _worthy_. He pushes back, pushes until their chests are practically flush and their hands are trapped between them.

Billy’s breath is coming fast, he can hear it panting out, can feel the thunderous rhythm of his pulse in his throat and his ears and his chest.

Steve’s mouth is open too, his cheeks flushed, maybe with the exertion, maybe from their proximity, but then Billy is somehow fucking _blinded_ because before he knows it, Steve uses the little leverage he has to force Billy to spin, yanks his arm behind his back and shoves him against the worktop.

It thrusts Steve’s hips snug against Billy’s ass, forces Billy to bend over just a little bit, and Billy can feel Steve’s fingertips where they’re pressing into his spine, where they’re _holding him down_ , and fuckfuck _fuck_ –

Billy’s hard, instantly, dizzyingly, not even a semi but full-on rock hard. His breath punches out in a noise that whines from within his nose, quick and involuntary and totally inescapable. Everyone must hear.

Steve’s solid weight bears down on his shoulder-blades; not enough to hurt, but just enough to feel it, to taste the slight twinge of the forced position. His hips are trapping Billy into the counter, his thighs pelvis stomach all pressed along Billy’s back, and Billy can hardly _see anything,_ spots of grey dancing in the sides of his vision until Steve (mercifully, agonisingly) lets up.

“Gotcha!” Steve crows.

“It was still close, though!” Tommy is still fucking _here_ , somehow. “You’ve got to hand it to Billy, that was pretty close.”

“Yeah, yeah, fine.” Steve rolls his eyes and holds his hands up, grin wide, eyes sparkling and fixed on Billy as if Billy is a part of this, as if he’s not just struck dumb and stood there gaping, hands splayed on the counter, for all intents and purposes _open to the taking_.

“Billy?” Steve tries, a little unsure, because Billy hasn’t said or done anything for almost a minute.

“Jesus.” He croaks out a rough laugh, pushes off the counter. “Just took me by damn surprise, Harrington!” Billy barks. “Looks like you got a little fire in ya after all!”

Tommy laughs, but Billy needs to leave this room right fucking now, is barely covering his hips as it is and can’t exactly do anything about the situation in his pants other than _hide it._

He’s got about three minutes left before this situation turns real goddamn weird – either because Billy turns around and shows them, or because he doesn’t turn around at all. Neither one is normal.

He does the only thing he can think of.

He picks up a beer on the worktop, downs it in one, and smacks his lips. “Alright boys, I gotta piss.” Billy doesn’t look at either Tommy or Steve as he sidles out in two strides, keeps his head down and his steps purposeful.

He makes it to the bathroom in a matter of seconds.

He gives it one hard knock. Nothing.

Billy kicks inside and slams the door shut. He doesn’t even bother to unbuckle anything; just leans against the door, shoves a hand down his jeans and squeezes himself.

The relief is instantaneous, a hot flood of adrenaline to the veins.

His wrist is cramped and uncomfortable, trapped behind his belt, but it doesn’t matter because he won’t last, _can’t_ last. The memory of Steve and the heat of him pressed to Billy’s back, the delicious pressure of his fingertips on Billy’s spine, is still close, so close. Hee curls his toes in his boots and jerks himself hard and fast until the pressure in his belly mounts up.

Billy bites hard on his lower lip, flicks his wrist and comes with a grunt. The sensation is a swift kick to the gut. His spine curves, head thrown back, as the rush flows through him.

And then it passes, and he’s left with a sticky hand and cramp all along his arm.

Billy sighs. He yanks his wrist out and goes over to the sink. He’s washing up when there’s a knock to the door.

“Gimme minute!” Billy barks.

“Billy?” Steve asks, voice a little muffled. “You okay?”

Fuck. Oh fuck. If Billy opens this door, Steve will smell everything, the arousal and the sweat and the semen, he’ll _know_ –

It hits him.

Blockers. Jesus, Billy’s an idiot. All the tension and the terror dissipates right out of him.

Then Billy frowns. Why is Steve banging on the bathroom door?

“Yeah!” Billy calls back, voice coloured with confusion. He’s only been a couple minutes, surely. It didn’t exactly feel that long to him.

Billy dries his hands, makes sure he’s presentable, straightens his shirt and tucks everything back in before he opens the door.

Steve appears, eyes bright, face is a little red.

“You alright?” They both ask at the same time.

And then Steve laughs, and Billy chuckles back.

“You just ran away there, I thought.” Steve explains, and leans against the doorframe with a shrug. “I dunno. Something was up.”

 _Perceptive piece of shit,_ Billy thinks. Steve Harrington notices things when he wants to.

“Nope, I’m good.” Billy beams with his teeth.

“Good.” Steve gives him a once-over, quick as a flash, and then tilts his head. “You ready to go?”

Billy frowns. “What – leave?”

Steve stretches with a little sigh, pushes his shoulders back. “Yeah, man. I’m beat.” And then he peers at Billy oddly. “You can stay, if you want.”

“Nah, I’ll come with you.” Billy says instinctively.

Steve smiles slow. “Yeah? Nobody really catch your eye?”

Billy blinks in surprise, thrown.

He can’t remember ever talking to Steve about this, doing the whole typical locker-room chat. He doesn’t even know what brought it on – if he somehow suggested during the party that he was looking for somebody, that he was in any way _interested_ _whatsoever_.

“What, while I was spending all my time with you?” Billy laughs, a little confused. He doesn’t know what Steve means. What he’s asking. What he’s saying.

But then Steve’s cheeks darken, his eyes going all soft and warm. “Yeah?”

Billy frowns harder. “ _Yeah_ , idiot.”

Steve smiles, reaches up to flick Billy’s chest with his fingers. It’s against the bare skin there, makes Billy’s blood sing.

“Good.” He states, and then he turns to go. When Billy does nothing, Steve waits a couple metres away.

“Coming?”

Billy takes the hint and trots on over. He stops beside Steve, though, because Steve hasn’t started walking again.

He’s just stood there, smiling at Billy.

“What?” Billy asks warily and looks down at himself. He feels exposed, for some reason. Transparent. As if Steve is seeing something Billy isn’t.

“Nothing.” Steve says, still with a smile. “Let’s go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Billy radiates [I Would Do Anything For Love](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9X_ViIPA-Gc), mainly for the lyrics _'Some days I just pray to the god of sex and drums and rock 'n' roll'_ and _'Maybe I'm lonely, that's all I'm qualified to be'_. But also the simple line, _'I'd run right into hell and back'_ because honestly, I just know Billy loves hard and fierce and with everything. Also, these lyrics, _'Will you raise me up? Will you help me down? Will you get me right out of this godforsaken town? Will you make it all a little less cold?'_ just remind me so much of Steve, it's insane. 
> 
> Anyways, I've listened to this song on repeat the entire time I've wrote this. I felt it worth a mention.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there! Sorry for the slight delay, I was on holiday! Now my masters starts next week and I can imagine my update schedule is only going to get worse from here on. 
> 
> In other news, I was shortlisted with 10 other writers for a literary prize, which was lovely. I did not win, but I was a finalist! Hopefully by the time I've finished this, I will be published somewhere! Maybe.
> 
> Speaking to my commenters now: the majority of you are lovely and I adore you all. You're truly the reason my fics become so long! 
> 
> However, I'm receiving comments from a guest on my works, who I can only assume is leaving comments as a guest because they have an account here. 
> 
> They leave the same variation of 'this is out of character shit/trash/garbage' every time, even though they change the name. 
> 
> I guess this goes out to everybody who leaves this feedback on anybody's content. I have absolutely no idea what you're hoping to achieve, but I do hope one day you grow above it. 
> 
> Don't usually do this, but massive shout out to nervoussis, thatgirlwhodraws, OnePunchMySoul, Phantom_traveler, Sky2Fall, and Glitter_Bug. Your comments on every chapter make me feel warm and fill me with happiness. There is a human behind your screen, and they appreciate you so much! ♥️

So, Billy and Steve hang out. They’re friends; real good friends. Billy probably spends more time with Steve Harrington than anybody else.

Including his own goddamn family.

Step One of his plan has been, in Billy’s humble opinion, a resounding success.

They have something of a routine, actually. Billy goes to Steve’s after school, they’ll shoot the shit and maybe do some English homework because Steve is persistent and stubborn and may also be harbouring under the assumption Billy needs it.

And who is Billy to disagree? Maybe he fucking needs it. He’s not Shakespeare.

Neither is Steve, but that’s beside the point.

Sometimes they’ll order food in. One time, Billy decided he’d make them something for dinner, until he opened up the cupboards and found shockingly little. Shockingly fucking _nothing_.

He dragged a shame-faced Steve Harrington over to the grocery store. He picked up all fresh ingredients, even some of the shit he doesn’t usually work with just because it was all going on Steve’s card anyways.

Steve held an aubergine in his hand for an absurd amount of time. Billy almost got worried. But then he tailed after Billy like an overeager puppy and whistled the tune of _The Jungle Book’s_ ‘I Wanna Be Like You-Oh-Oh’ until Billy turned around and elbowed him in the side with a laugh.

They made a stir-fry; which Billy hasn’t made in fucking _forever_. Steve groaned on the first bite as his eyelids fluttered. Billy felt such a visceral pulse of _pride_ at that he had to squirm on the sofa and draw his knees up.

Christ, his rut is coming. _Soon_.

Billy can practically taste it.

Steve told him to stay over. Billy didn’t want to leave anyways, so he stayed.

They washed their dishes together. Steve played some godawful country music that Billy yelled over the whole time while Steve pretended not to hear as he danced in his socks on the kitchen floor.

He kept edging closer and closer and Billy didn’t give in, he fucking _swears_ he didn’t _,_ but Steve was freaking funny. He grabbed Billy’s wrist and spun him around. It made Billy laugh, literally _once_ , but that seemed to be enough to encourage Steve, because he kept doing it.

Billy will never admit to dancing to country. Never.

The took the living room floor again and passed out somewhere between midnight and four AM.

Steve crashed on one of the living room sofas while Billy took the opposite. There were perfectly good guest beds upstairs, but this way Billy thinks they don’t really need to acknowledge the fact that Billy is staying over when there’s not a single damn reason for him to stay over.

They can pretend that they’ve just passed out watching TV, that it’s this casual arrangement that doesn’t need discussion, it’s just this spontaneous thing and not something Billy hopes Steve will ask for every time he comes over.

Anyways, Steve is still playing chauffeur-babysitter for the entirety of Hawkins under the age of fifteen, and Billy is somehow embroiled in it too. He’s given up questioning it.

Steve tightens up like a clam whenever Billy makes a joke, flippant and careless, and then Billy will wake up with a start at night because yeah, there are motherfucking _monsters_ in Hawkins. With everything else going on, that fact managed to slip Billy’s mind.

Steve’s Daytime Delivery Service makes a lot more sense after that.

He wants to ask, sometimes. When he sees the terse line of Steve’s shoulders after the sun goes down, the quick dart of his eyes at some sudden movement in class, the flinch during basketball practise when one of the guys slaps him on the shoulder.

 _How long have you been doing this?_ Billy wants to ask. _How long has life been like this?_

He wants to know. And not because of how freakish those things were, some mutilated version of a dog or a cat or an overgrown _something_. And not because Steve seemed to instinctively know what to do with them and brought a freaking _fourteen-year-old_ along for the ride, and can’t tell Billy because of some consensus with a group of _more_ fourteen-year-olds.

He wants to know how long Steve’s been dealing with this. How long he’s been what looks like the only responsible adult in this situation. How long he’s been shouldering the burden alone.

But Billy also wants to know if Steve’s trusted somebody else with this, if Steve’s let anybody else come along on his hunting trips, if Tommy or Carol are in on it, if Steve has fucking _anybody_. One single person.

Billy doesn’t exactly care how many people in Hawkins know about the creatures. Doesn’t care how they townspeople deal with them, how the police department keep it under wraps, what the kids at Hawkins fucking _High_ think.

He cares about what Steve thinks.

And he’s going to ask. He’s going to bring it up, somehow. Gentler this time, probably. He’ll get it out of Steve, it won’t be hard. He’ll let Steve know that Billy is here.

That he doesn’t need to do this shit alone anymore.

That is until Lucas, Dustin and Max all climb into the back of Steve’s Beemer, with Billy sprawled out in the front smug as a cat, and Dustin turns to whisper,

“Anyways, it’s not as if we have El around to ask about D’Art and if he’s as bad as a Demogorgon, or if he’s going to _become_ a Demogorgon –”

“Can’t you guys just contact her?” Max asks. “Somehow? There’s gotta be a way she’ll know, and she can help, plus it seems pretty likely it’ll become a Demogorgon, Dustin, if it –”

It takes Billy a full minute.

One full minute.

But when Dustin opens his mouth to reply, Billy sits up and whips around.

“Hold the shit.” Billy states, which doesn’t make sense, but not the point. “How the fuck do you know about the Demogorgons?”

Max gapes at him, as if she’s just seen him. “How do _you?”_

Everyone in the car is silent.

“Should I.” Steve tries, one foot on the gas.

Billy and Max have a stare off.

He’s not breaking it. He’s not going to break it. He’s not.

Max’s stare is level and hard.

“She’s our newest member.” Dustin fills in, when the silence stretches past the point of uncomfortable.

Which.

Billy swivels his head and looks at Steve.

Steve grimaces. “They just … kind of decided –”

“So,” Billy starts. “Just to get this straight. My fourteen-year-old stepsister somehow qualifies to be in on Hawkins’ Freaky Shit, but _me_ , who got thrown against a tree by said Freaky Shit, doesn’t?”

There’s a beat.

Steve bites his bottom lip. “Well.”

Billy throws his hands up. “You have got to be _kidding me!”_

“We’re still scoping you out!” Lucas tries.

“The fuck is there to scope?” Billy twists to glare at him.

Three kids stare at him, wide-eyed.

“You’re … pretty scary, dude.” Lucas adds.

Billy crosses his arms over his chest. He looks at Steve again.

Steve holds his hands up. “Look, I’m not the executive decision-maker. I’m not even second in command.”

“Among a bunch of _fourteen-year olds?”_ Billy asks, because it really does need stressed.

“Are we ever going to move?” Max snaps from the backseat.

Billy turns, eyebrows up. She’s glaring out the window. 

Steve starts the car.

“I swear.” Billy mutters. “If it turns out to be some lame-ass story, like some pigs fell in toxic waste or some shit –”

Steve snorts.

Lucas does one better; he laughs. “If only it were that, dude.” He chuckles, until he hisses sharp. “ _Jeez_ , it was funny.”

Billy looks at them through the rear-view. Lucas is rubbing his side; Max is turned away from him.

Billy bites his cheek on a grin.

As soon as Steve parks in front of their house, Max gets out without a word and slams the door.

“Hey! Watch it!” Steve calls after her, because he is a literal mom.

Billy steps out after her. He turns to say bye, and Steve blinks owlishly at him.

“You not coming to mine?” He asks.

Warmth tingles the very tips of his fingers. Billy is still pretending to be mad, though.

“What, non-members still allowed in your house?” He quips.

Steve’s face scrunches up in a frown, before he realises and opens his mouth just as Billy turns away.

Billy is halfway up the stairs when he realises Max is waiting at his door for him, arms crossed, tensed all over.

Billy pauses halfway up and cocks an eyebrow.

“Stop stealing all my friends.” She states.

Billy can’t help it; he laughs out loud. God, but she really is fourteen.

“Stop stealing all _my_ friends.” He parrots back, just to be childish.

“What – they were mine first!” Max takes a step forward, her arms falling to her sides. “And they’re not even your age!”

“Max.” Billy states, because it’s dawning on him now. “You seriously cannot think that I care about your little ragtag band of weirdos.”

Max just stares at him. “Um, _yeah_ , because you’re really desperate to get in on the secret so you can screw it up somehow. Like you always do.”

Billy grins wide and hard. “Ouch.” He’s kind of impressed, actually.

He’s also kind of trying to remember everything he’s screwed up, being pretty vigilant his whole life in not doing that.

But then he’s guessing maybe his perception of himself and Max’s perception are pretty damn different.

Max blinks. She tilts her head ironically. “What, you don’t care about it? This big massive secret Hawkins is hiding?”

Billy realises she’s about to get real close to the truth real soon if he isn’t careful. So he just snorts and pushes past her. “Sure, Max.” Is all he says, suddenly tired. Suddenly exhausted, for no apparent reason. Fighting with Max doesn’t hold the same fun, anymore.

Max gives him a once-over, scrutinising. “So there’s some other reason that you’re riding around with Steve –” She says, and then stops.

Billy turns around. “What?” He sighs.

Max doesn’t say anything.

He waits, eyebrows raised.

“You’re need to get them to trust you.” She says at random. “I don’t know how I did, but you can’t just demand to know everything and expect results.”

Billy takes a long breath in, rests a hand on his door handle. “Anything else?”

Max studies him for a beat. “Nope.” And then she finally goes into her own room.

Billy rolls his eyes. When he closes his door, he finds himself smiling. It’s small, though, and he frowns it away.

*

The next day, before Billy’s even stepped a single foot in school, Steve is falling into step with him.

“Okay, you want to know about it, I’ll tell you about it, but a very abridged version that under _no circumstances_ you can say I told you, okay?”

Damn. That was easy.

Billy smiles, big and pleased. “Sure. Go.”

Steve looks downright scandalised, which is the most dramatic. “Not _now_. Jesus, Billy. Later.”

Billy snickers. “You’d think it was some government secret, Steve.”

Steve goes suspiciously quiet.

“Seriously?” Billy asks. “Awesome.”

Steve scrubs his face, but he’s smiling behind his hands. Billy can tell: his whole body perks up when he grins. He’s like a cartoon, and Billy fucking loves it.

“My place.” Steve says finally. His hands drop, and he fixes Billy a serious face.

Billy flicks his nose; Steve slaps at his hand and shoves at his shoulder.

They part ways laughing.

*

Then Steve tells him.

Billy sits on the sofa, stumped.

“Uh.” He tries.

Steve waits.

“Not. What I was expecting.” Billy manages. And then, “A _parallel_ universe?”

Steve nods.

Billy waves a spread hand in a circle. “Like sci-fi, different dimension, fantasy made-up shit?”

Steve nods. Then he hands Billy a beer.

*

“And then, _then_ , I swear –” Steve is saying, brandishing a bottle of vodka while Billy is flat on his back in the living room, _howling_.

They progressed to the hard liquor at some point during a discussion about what qualifies an alien, because Billy is still not convinced.

Because. An _alien_.

They’re not aliens. They’re freaky, for sure. But Billy draws the line at alien.

“I can’t believe you got beat up by _Jonathan Byers_ –” Billy wheezes, slapping the floor at his side.

“ _Not!_ Even the _worst thing_ to happen that night!” Steve shouts, his voice loud just for the sake of it, shouting because he wants to.

“What the fuck could be _worse?”_ Billy cries back.

“Uh, how about driving over to Byers’ to apologise, finding _Nancy_ , and _then_ being attacked by. A Demogorgon _.”_ Steve finishes with a little bow, twirls his hand all gentlemanly.

Billy lifts his head off the floor to look at him. “That is a rough goddamn night.” He agrees.

Steve throws his head back to laugh like some movie-star, and then he comes over and tries to pass the vodka to Billy.

He miscalculates, somehow, and trips up on his way over, spills a little out the neck of the bottle and lands next to Billy on the floor.

“Whoops.” Steve laughs. His voice is all croaky and hoarse as he lifts the bottle and passes it to Billy. Billy takes it from him, but Steve’s fingers are a little slippery, and they brush and fumble against one another until Billy has a good grip.

His cheeks aren’t hot from it; he’s not fucking _twelve_. He’s drunk, that’s all.

Billy takes a long swig and grimaces up his entire face; Steve laughs again until he stops and frowns.

“Hey. How’d we end up on the floor?”

Billy looks down at himself, as if he’ll find the answer there.

Steve laughs again, bumps Billy’s chest with the backs of his knuckles, friendly and teasing but for the way it makes Billy’s heart jerk to life like a fish out of water.

He’s always so _close_ to Steve, doesn’t even know how it happened, doesn’t really know how anything happens when it comes to Steve – he just finds gravitating further and further inside Steve’s space whenever they’re near.

“It doesn’t matter.” Steve decides, and lets out a breath in a happy sigh. He flops his head back down against the floor, gazes up at the ceiling.

Billy turns to him. “Hey. What are we gonna do?” He murmurs. 

He doesn’t exactly need to finish. And Billy knows Steve needed this, to laugh about it all, to just _get it out_ , but he also knows Steve needs to talk like this as well.

Because a bunch of kids, an ex-girlfriend and her new beau aren’t exactly prime chatting material.

Steve looks right back at him. “I don’t have a single fucking clue.” He admits. “Not one. Fucking. Iota.”

Billy holds his gaze. “You don’t need to, Steve. This isn’t your fucking job.”

Steve rubs his face with both hands. “Except that it is, now. It’s everybody’s job. Everyone that knows.”

“What, is it my job now?” Billy asks. “Now that I know?”

“That’s different.” Steve says, blows out a breath. “You’re not _obligated_ to help, you know, same with the kids. Me, Nance, Hop, Joyce. _We’re_ the fucking adults in this. We’re the ones that need to stop it. Because – we’re the only ones we can fucking trust. The government and the whole rest of the world – they’re trying to bury it, the experiments, the deaths–”

Billy sits up. “The deaths?”

Steve looks at him. His eyes are blank. “There was this girl.” He says. “Barb. She was.” He pauses. “She was our friend.”

Billy is silent.

“One of them got her.” He finishes.

Billy doesn’t reply. He swallows, quietly, but he doesn’t say anything.

“When I saw that thing throw you.” Steve murmurs. “I thought – I just saw.” He cuts off, breath heavy.

Billy waits.

“And then I kept thinking.” Steve carries on. “I just on kept thinking if that’s what it was like for her. If she … If she suffered, you know?” His voice goes quiet and low. “Or if it was quick.”

There’s a pause.

“I hope it was quick.” Steve whispers.

Billy does the only thing he can think of; he reaches out and touches Steve.

Steve jerks a little, an unconscious action, but he turns his eyes up to look at Billy, wide and open. Billy squeezes Steve’s wrist; not quite holding his hand, not quite doing something else. He doesn’t really know what he’s doing, to be honest.

But they don’t say anything. There’s nothing to say. There’s just a moment, a quiet breathing, and this point of contact between them. Billy’s grip is firm and secure, not tight and not gentle either.

Steve turns his wrist up, slides his hand into Billy’s. Their fingers aren’t linked, but Steve’s palm is warm and rough and strong. It enfolds Billy’s, his long fingers wrapping around easily.

Billy feels a little light-headed, his head turned to look at Steve a couple centimetres away from him on the floor.

It doesn’t seem like Steve’s going to say anything, his mouth closed and eyes wide, until Billy licks his lips unconsciously.

Steve tracks the movement.

“I need to do something about them. The Demogorgons.” Steve murmurs, brings his eyes up from Billy’s mouth to Billy’s eyes. “Okay? I need to. Otherwise they’ll destroy every good thing I have. They nearly did once.”

Billy’s throat is tight and narrow. The conviction in Steve’s voice is difficult to listen to.

“What’s the plan?” He croaks.

Steve holds his gaze. “Hunt them. Kill them. As many as I can.” 

“With that nail-bat and the good grace of your own ass?” Billy asks.

“With that bat.” Steve agrees. “And the grace of my ass.”

Billy laughs. “Okay.” He says. “I’m in.”

*

Walking into Joyce Byers’ house is not something Billy ever expected he’d be doing on a Sunday afternoon, but here he is.

Steve walks in first, and then he stops in front of a little crowd gathered around the dining table. It's Joyce, Hopper, that kid Billy now knows has been to some other dimension, which once again, _what the shit_ , Jonathan, and none other than the precious Nancy Wheeler.

Everybody stops when Steve comes in. They straighten up and open their mouths.

Until they catch sight of Billy behind Steve.

All their mouths promptly shut.

“Hey.” Steve says it like it’s a fact, crosses his arms and pulls himself to his full height. “Billy’s a part of this now.”

Billy turns from all the faces staring at him to give an appraising glance at Steve’s set of shoulders.

That’s a long fucking way from _I’m not even second in command._ Which was also a mere couple days ago.

There’s a beat.

“Okay sweetie.” Joyce says with a smile. “If you want.”

Steve waits, looks over at Hopper.

Hopper holds his hands palm-up. “You seem to know what you’re doing.”

Steve’s spine seems to gain an inch. He grins wide. “Cool.” And then he turns to Billy with said grin.

Billy flashes two thumbs up, midriff level so nobody else sees. “So.” He starts, steps closer and looks down at the maps strewn across the table. He positions himself in the middle of Nancy and Jonathan, radiates Alpha energy so hard he’s pretty sure a little pee comes out.

Jonathan scampers back quick. Worth it.

Billy claps his hands and grins with all his teeth. “What we got going on here?”

*

So. Billy’s a member of The Party.

He tries not to gloat too hard over dinner, but Max spears her broccoli with such force it’s hard not to snicker around his fork.

Then, the thing that Billy worried might happen actually happens.

He starts to slack in training.

It’s not noticeable at first. Even when it does become noticeable it’s only by a miniscule amount.

It’s a slight change in stamina, his pace being just a little off his usual for the last couple metres of a run. Nothing massive. Nothing that still isn’t better than everyone in this whole town.

But when Billy does notice, it comes like a slap.

He’s been such a fucking idiot.

He slums it with Steve every single day _, all day_ , and expects to still stay at his peak?

Billy does the only thing he can think of. Punishment.

He’ll get Steve when he’s back on top form. For now, Steve is a reward he clearly doesn’t deserve.

“So, what time you com–” Steve starts.

“Can’t tonight, Stevie.” Billy slaps the hood of Steve’s car as he leans into the window, at the driver’s side where Steve sits with a smile and three kids stuffed in the back.

Steve blinks, thrown. “Huh?”

“Sorry, b – buddy,” Billy manages, because Christ he was about to say _baby_. This is a massive motherfucking problem. “Too much to do.”

Steve’s shoulders drop, but his smile remains. “Guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

It’s one day.

_It’s one day._

“Yeah.” Billy grins, all teeth, and turns away to the Camaro. He throws himself inside and curls his fists tight. They’re shaking. This is ridiculous. It’s one fucking day. Billy feels as if his skin is falling off. The restlessness, the strange crawling sensation over his skin, has already started.

His rut is careening towards him, hard and fast as an overturned train. It’s about to slam into Billy with all the force of a comet.

 _Shit_.

Max climbs in the passenger side and eyes him suspiciously. “No Steve? He said you had stuff to do.”

Billy turns the keys. “No Steve.” He replies.

*

He runs a 20K that night, comes back and shoots hoops until his wrists ache. Then he collapses on top of his bed and doesn’t move a muscle for an hour. And then, he does some free weights and cooks up roast chicken and vegetables for dinner.

And it’s halfway through dinner that Billy comes to a realisation.

His life is goddamn bleak. Depressing. Empty.

 _This_ life, that is. This one he’s forcing himself to live. This routine of exercise and training and dieting, all for some organisation to decide that he’s good enough to keep doing it for four years throughout college.

At first it was a goal, a dream. Then it was a distraction, a hope for escape. Now it’s a prison.

Because why is he doing this? Does he even want it anymore?

Does he want this life for himself in California, pushing himself through a sports scholarship and maintaining this level of training, probably _more_ than this level, working with athletes and rising stars even when he doesn’t want to join them in the ranks?

Eating like this and exercising like this for four entire fucking _years_ just so he doesn’t have to pay anything for it? Just so he can get out of Neil Hargrove’s orbit and get his own place, his own chores, his own freedom?

What’s all that? What is any of that? That’s not happiness. That’s shit. There’s no Steve.

It’s as if a wall of despair comes down over Billy. His fork is halfway to his lips, but his whole mouth is dry and ashy. He puts it down slowly and stares at his plate.

He’s at the last stretch and he doesn’t want it anymore.

What kind of cosmic bullshit is that?

Because he wants _this_ life. These small-town people, these friendships, these ridiculous kids, this weird babysitter routine, Steve. He wants Steve, he wants what they have, even as it is right now. He wants anything he can get.

Five years. Five years of work down the drain.

It can’t be. It won’t be.

He’ll convince Steve to come with him. To join him in California. To go to college with Billy and split the cost of rent. They’ll make friends over there and Billy will have both. He needs both.

He’s not giving up one.

*

Billy lasts about two days of No Steve before Steve comes knocking. Or, better yet, comes storming over to Billy at his locker.

“Hey, what’s the deal?” He starts, arms crossed, although with the way his hands are gripping his biceps it looks more like he’s hugging himself.

Billy blinks. “Huh?”

Steve frowns. “I let you in on the whole – _thing_ , and you go and bail man. What’s the deal?”

Oh.

Billy sighs. “Steve.” He closes his locker and leans against it. “I didn’t bail, I just.” And goddamn it, this is embarrassing. “I need to train, for. You know.” He ruffles the hair at the nape of his neck. “The sports scholar –”

Steve’s arms fall uncrossed, his posture loosening. “This again? That whole crazy training thing?”

Billy purses his mouth. “Yup. The whole crazy training thing. I can’t start slacking, Steve, not when I’m so close.”

He’s about to say more, about to say _, but it’s not so hard, if you get into a routine_ , but Steve beats him to it.

“What, so you need to go home to – _train?”_ Steve asks, brow furrowed.

“Train, practise basketball, do weights.” Billy explains. “Kinda been slacking, as ya’ can imagine, what with all the inter-terrestrial shit.”

“Inter- _dimensional_.” Steve corrects, but he’s smiling.

“See? It’s a fucking lot.” Billy says.

Steve’s grin stretches even further.

“Either way, it’s cutting into my free time, Stevie.” Billy adds, really driving it in, really hoping Steve catches the hint. “Have to squeeze it in somewhere.”

Steve bites his lip. “Why don’t we just train together? I mean, I have a hoop at my place, it’s pretty decent.”

Billy tries not to glow.

Because hook, line, and sinker.

_Success._

“Yeah?” Billy says instead, only mildly interested.

Steve nods, eyes bright. “Yeah.”

“Okay.” Billy says. “I’ll get you after school.”

*

Steve gets him after school; smiles when Billy climbs in, drops all the kids off and then takes Billy to the Harrington Palace, which Billy may or may not have spent longer in this week than his own house.

Steve goes to change in his room while Billy takes the bathroom; throws on his gym stuff and finds Steve out in his massive garden bouncing a ball.

“Ready?” Steve asks, his eyes excited, eager.

Billy just responds with a feint toward the ball. Steve laughs, and they start.

It’s fun. It’s _hard_. Steve is good, but Billy is better. Steve knows Billy is better, though, and uses his height and his speed to his advantage, balances out their clear difference in skill.

It’s good practise, it’s useful. Even though Billy can imagine Steve has a small empire to his name, he also can’t help but think Steve would have a chance at a scholarship too. If he put in the work starting now, by next summer he’d be up to scratch.

And it would look awesome on his CV, obviously. Billy knows Steve’s grades aren’t the best, just by common sense, but Steve has a chance with some of the top colleges if he goes down the sports route. He’s got the raw athleticism; he just needs to refine it.

He’s an Alpha too, or at least he will be one by the time the scouts come. He’s a fucking _super_ _Alpha_. Any college would love one of those in the ranks. Especially on their goddamn basketball team.

Everything is coming together, slotting neatly in place in Billy’s head, the future bright and promising and wide open.

It fills him with excitement, with goddamn _anticipation_. Billy is all over Steve; hip-checking him out the way, pressing up against his back, propping his chin over his shoulder, hands hovering above his waist. He can’t stay away.

Steve makes hilariously indignant noises and shouts every ten seconds, “Um, _foul!_ Sorry, you can’t –! _Billy!”_

But Billy just shifts Steve out the way, laughs loud and sharp, throws the ball up and doesn’t even look as it floats in.

“Ugh!” Steve groans, but he’s grinning.

And then he lifts his arm and wipes his forehead with the crease of his elbow.

Billy freezes where he’s stood.

It’s caught on the very fringes of his senses, not so much a scent as a – _sensation_.

Billy can’t put it into words. It’s like nothing he’s ever scented before. It feels like warmth and sunlight, a balm across his whole body, a fresh breeze of Californian air and the salt of the ocean, the hit of coffee from the diner that his mom used to take him to after surfing, the smell of the upholstery when they’d sit on the sofa together, the sensation of her hand on his face, the promise of comfort and safety and _home_.

Billy’s hands spasm. _Mine. This is mine._

“Billy?” Steve frowns, lowers his arm slowly.

Billy tries to speak; his throat is constricted. “You.” He manages, gravelly and thick. “You have a scent.”

Steve’s eyes widen comically large. “Huh?”

Billy gives swallowing another attempt, even though his throat is dry as sandpaper. He can’t seem to make any saliva. He licks his mouth with a dry tongue.

“It’s – faint.” He croaks. “But. I can smell you.”

Steve’s whole face brightens. “Really? That’s great!” He lifts his arm again, sniffs at his armpit. “I don’t smell anything. Do you think it’s the sweat?” He looks at Billy.

Billy is fucking _monosyllabic_ at this point, struck dumb and mute. He can’t even scent anything and already he’s lost his entire mind.

“Billy?” Steve prompts.

“I.” Billy rasps. “I’d. Need to be closer.”

It’s the truth – from this far away, with it being so faint, Billy can’t really get a proper scent. It won’t solidify, as if Steve is miles away and not just a couple metres.

Billy’s guessing Steve’s scent has only just broken through, there’s not enough of it on his skin to even permeate in the air.

But Steve doesn’t ask.

He just steps up instantly and into Billy’s personal space. He puts himself inches away from Billy, chin up and tilted just a little to the side, body-heat rolling across to Billy in waves.

It smacks Billy across the face.

It’s not so much an assault as it is a rush of feeling: of every good thing in Billy’s life, every good moment and minute and second rolled into one. Of _happinesscontentmentjoydelight,_ of something that’s been missing finally sliding into place.

Billy never even realised that this is what’s been missing the whole time – this is what his instincts have been fighting against, been protesting the whole time – not being able to scent _this_.

It’s not a full scent, it’s muted and dulled somehow, as if on the dimmest setting possible. But even the whiff that Billy catches sinks into his brain and melts it clean out his ears.

Because clearly Billy is the biggest idiot alive to think that Steve’s blocker-scent just didn’t bother him anymore, when clearly it was because Steve’s blocker-scent was gone, and his natural one was coming through, and Billy never even _noticed_ until now – until it was literally _shoved under his nose._

And even still he wants more of it, needs to be closer to it, pressed against it, to touch and taste and feel and mark Steve as his–

Billy staggers back.

“What –” Steve starts, confused.

“I gotta go.” Billy stalks across the garden and around to Steve’s driveway.

“Why? What is it?” Steve jogs to keep up. “Is it bad? I thought – Billy, just wait a minute, I’ll drop you off!”

Billy isn’t listening, needs to get away, needs to be away, because – because _shitshitshit_ –

“Billy, is it really that bad?” Steve pants, working to match Billy’s pace. “I don’t get it – isn’t this a good thing?”

“It is good!” Billy calls back and hopes his voice isn’t too destroyed. “It’s great Steve! I just gotta go!”

“What –” He hears, but Billy is basically running at this point, and there’s no fucking way Steve hasn’t clued into the fact that the slightest whiff of his scent has pushed Billy into a primal frenzy, there’s no fucking way he doesn’t know whatsoever, he’s got to know, he’s _got to know_ that –

Fuck.

Billy’s rut has started.

*

Billy doesn’t really know how he makes it home.

He thunders up the stairs and closes the door, jams his chair against it and runs hands through his hair. Then he starts to pace.

He needs to be moving. He needs to keep moving. He’s shaking all over, but it feels like if he stops moving he’ll fly apart. There’s a crawling itch all along his body, the shifting kind that travels every time Billy tries to find it to scratch at, a desperation welling up somewhere deep from within him, somewhere Billy didn’t even know fucking _existed_.

He makes for the door and then spins around, curls his fists tight and breathes hard through his nose. No. _No_. He can do this. He knows he can do this. He needs to do this. There’s no other option.

Because what, go to Steve and say, _hey, you’ve brought my rut on early, and I don’t know how you feel about me just yet and I know this is all new, but would you mind awfully if we mate for life?_

**Fuck.**

It’s not bad. Not just yet. It’s not fully set in. This is the irritable, restless, could crawl into a hole and scream/die stage. It’s not the delirium just yet.

This is manageable.

Billy doesn’t do this. He’s never done this. It’s really fucking stupid and all Alphas know it.

But he pushes the chair aside and throws himself down the stairs. Storms into the kitchen, opens the cupboard, and downs three painkillers whole.

He waits. Bounces on the soles of his feet. Scratches at his throat and his face and his chest.

It’s not working.

“Fuck.” Billy hisses.

He checks the living room. Max must be in her room; it’s just Neil and Susan sat in there.

Billy hates this part. Hates it with a motherfucking passion.

Hates that he has to timidly creep up, hands behind his back, and murmur out, _so my rut’s here, I need to stay in my room again._

Hates the looks he get, hates the frustrated little huffs as if he can’t hear them.

Billy chews on his thumbnail. No. He’ll pace it out upstairs and maybe pass out for a little while. It’ll be fine. Everything will be fine.

*

Everything gets a little blurry after that.

The gist of it is that Billy wakes up in the middle of a road.

Drugs = a bad idea.

He blinks, and then blinks harder, because it’s still dark as if he’s not opened his eyes. It’s then that the sensation of wetness against his cheek makes itself known.

He feels beneath him, frowns when he finds rough, hard pavement soaked in rain and dirt.

Is he outside?

Is he in the fucking _street?_

Billy jerks up with a sharp inhale.

He’s not wearing a shirt. His feet are bare. He’s fucking freezing. And he needs – he _needs_ something, he needs it, he can’t live without, he’ll die without it, he was looking for it, he remembers now, fuck it was Steve. He needs Steve. He needs to find Steve.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Posting at 3am is what normal people do, I'm sure !! I had set myself an unofficial deadline for Sunday, and missed it by a few miles. But it's been about three weeks since the massive cliff-hanger update, and I don't see myself having a lot of free-time soon, so I wanted to finally give the confession chapter before I may need to retreat into a cave for this masters 🤧 two weeks in and drowning!!
> 
> Endless, endless thanks for the comments on the last chapter and the support over the anon hater. I did get in touch with ao3 but there's nothing they can do that I don't already know about. All your comments are a total blessing and I cherish each one!! 💫♥️✨

Everything is hazy, unfocused. Billy can’t focus.

He can’t _think._

Then the feeling shoots through Billy like a spear, and he jolts up, breath hard and quick.

Billy scrambles to his feet. He whips around this way and that, trying to figure out where the _fuck_ he is. The confusion he felt on first waking up is gone: all Billy feels now is desperate.

The kind of desperate that only comes on from a sudden leg-cramp or the hunger of a post-marathon. The kind of desperate that’s immediate, present, all-consuming.

Because he’s close; _he’s close_. Steve is close. Steve is here. Billy knows it. Something in his bones is telling him Steve is near, he’s within reach, he’s a tantalising presence and its fuelling a kind of fucking _frenzy_ in him. He has enough sense left to know that – but it’s fading fast, Billy can feel it.

Consciousness is slipping like water through his fingers, shapeless and without form. He won’t be able to think soon.

This isn’t his usual rut.

This isn’t the storm of restless, frustrated longing whipped all up inside him, nowhere to go. It’s not clawing at the walls, itching at his skin and this nameless, faceless _thing_ that Billy wants.

Every single part of Billy knows what he wants. Knows who he wants. He can barely fathom never mind _remember_ having a rut and pining away for some unknown stranger: some biological instinct hardwired into his brain aching for a mate he’s never met.

He barely remembers pacing his room with that feeling, knowing there’s no solution, no cure, nothing he can do but just ride it out.

Because everything inside him screams for Steve. Everything inside him knows Steve is his mate, knows Steve will end this feverish, frantic feeling, knows that once he finds Steve everything will be alright, everything will be wonderful in the world.

It’s not an itch, not a buzzing sensation all over his skin.

It’s a surety. It’s a bone-deep certainty that he needs to find Steve, that he needs to have Steve in his arms, that Steve is _his_ and he is Steve’s and Billy needs to confirm it every way possible. His Alpha instincts are propelling him on, pushing him to find Steve, claim him, mark him, _mate him._

Everything is cloudy and indistinct, Billy can’t really feel his fingertips, but the sense of purpose fills him from the toes up.

He starts to walk.

As he does, flashes of memory come to him: Steve’s boyish smile, quick and unabashed whenever Billy tells a joke. Steve’s nose-crinkle when he’s disgusted or amused by something, like when Billy gargles beer.

Steve’s strong hands, capable and sure when he handles the basketball, when he writes in that messy scrawl, when he touches Billy briefly in passing, and the contact lingers on Billy’s skin even over clothes.

Steve’s long strides and the way his legs eat up the ground, confident and focussed. Steve’s broad shoulders, the way the muscles of his back ripple in the locker-room, the way his shoulder-blades shift and the arc of his spine curves as he bends.

Steve’s body in any capacity, large and vast and unexplored; the way Billy dies a little on the inside when Steve is close, and his heat and his presence are all within touching distance.

The way his smile shines from his eyes when they’re watching TV, and Billy feels the burn a gaze on his face, turns to see Steve expressionless all for this bright, soft, secretive look in his eyes that Billy somehow knows is a smile. The way Steve blinks at that, as if coming up from underwater, as if unaware of why he was doing it.

Steve’s inherent goodness. Steve’s cocksure little eyebrow raise when he knows he’s right. Steve’s big laugh and the way it fills any space he’s in. Steve’s unimpressed huff, the two hands on hips, that tip-tapping little foot.

Steve’s unerring loyalty to the people he loves, even when they’ve done him wrong. Steve’s self-conscious duck of the head, the way it makes a lock of hair fall over his forehead. Steve. _Steve_.

“Steve.” Billy murmurs, mindless. He wraps arms around himself, clutches at his biceps with numb fingers.

He doesn’t know how or why he lost his shirt, doesn’t know anything, doesn’t particularly care. His feet are sore and wet and aching. Every muscle hurts. He’s only wearing long flannel pants, nothing else. The road isn’t ending.

But he needs to keep going; he needs to get to Steve. Soon he’ll be with Steve, soon Steve’s arms will come around him, soon Billy will feel the warmth of his embrace, and nothing else will matter. It’ll all be over.

All the waiting, all the pain, all the lonely nights. They’ll all be over. Billy will have Steve.

It’s dark: pitch-black. Billy doesn’t know how long he’s been outside. He must have passed out from the drugs, made it halfway to Steve’s house and somehow got lost along the way.

He has vague memories of tearing at his clothes in frustrated restlessness, scratching nails down his chest, fighting the urge to run to Steve’s place. Drumming fists on the sides of his head to _stop, stop, stop it._

Don’t go to Steve. _Don’t go to Steve._

But why? Why wouldn’t he go to Steve? Steve is his mate. Steve will make everything better. Steve will take care of him.

Billy remembers getting changed into pyjamas, forcing himself to lie down, waiting for the drugs to kick in and willing himself to sleep. Sinking into some restless state of semi-consciousness, dreaming of Steve’s face and the scent that poured off him, the scent that Billy still had up his nose a little, that he could smell with his eyes closed, inside his mind, seared into his brain.

Then waking up in a sudden hot, clammy sweat, frantic and desperate, throwing the covers off and rushing to the door. It was locked; Billy rattled at it. Shouted for Neil.

_Help! Help!_

The door opened in seconds, and Billy didn’t wait. Didn’t care. Shoved past and sprinted for dear life. Didn’t stop for shoes, jacket, shirt, nothing. Just started running and didn’t look back.

How long ago was that? It couldn’t have been too long ago if Billy had fallen asleep and woke up. But everything is unfamiliar, and Billy’s teeth chatter together in a continuous noise. His eyes are grainy and swollen, hard to hold open, and he squints down the road but it’s all hazy and unclear.

Maybe he could cut through the forest. That’s a good idea. Billy ducks into the side of the road, through a gap in the trees. The soft soil is a blessed relief on his feet, the trees an escape from the harsh winter air. It’s darker in here, though. Billy needs to hold out both hands in front of him to walk, feel the air to make sure he doesn’t walk into a tree.

Through the desperation to find Steve comes his old and worn self-preservation, a familiar friend. It’s telling Billy that he’s acting like a fucking idiot. That he needs to turn back the way he came, that he’s got a better chance of making it home than he does finding Steve.

But he’s so close. He’s so close to it all being over. His Alpha instincts have taken control, can sense his mate is nearby, have caught Steve’s scent and can’t let it go now. Billy is powerless.

Still, he’s so cold. He’s past cold and gone numb. His skin is unfeeling, his feet as heavy as leaden weights. His movements are slow, sluggish.

And then he hears a voice.

Billy pauses. Frowns.

 _‘Lay!’_ He catches, faraway and indistinct.

Billy stops moving. His heart kicks in his chest. He waits, listens harder.

“Billy!” Dustin shouts.

Billy’s head whips up.

“Here!” He calls back, though his voice is scratchy and thin.

There’s a sharp silence, as if Dustin has stopped.

“I’m here!” Billy tries again, before coughs wrack his body. He bends over to wheeze. His chest feels tight, his mouth coppery with salt and blood.

 _“BILLY!”_ Steve’s voice booms. It echoes around the whole forest.

Billy’s instincts surge to violent life.

He starts to run, stumbles a little, trips on a root but pulls himself back up.

“Steve!” He cries.

“Billy, we’re coming!” Steve’s voice is hoarse and brittle, as though it’s been shouting for hours. “Keep shouting!”  
  
“I’m!” Billy starts, and then it hits him.

Steve’s scent has broken through.

It permeates the air around them. It’s sharp and astringent with a cold-sweated terror.

It’s a punch to the gut: it’s his mate, _his mat_ _e_ , and Billy wants to erase the scent of those pheromones from the face of the Earth, because underneath the distress is that wonderful feeling, that feeling that Billy has missed his whole life, that feeling that _finally, finally I’ve found you._

He’s close, _he’s close,_ and then Billy catches a flash of light to his left.

He bolts towards it.

“Billy, keep talking!” Steve shouts, panicked. “Where are you!”

The light grows larger, and larger, and then –

Steve is throwing a torch around with frantic gestures, hair a mess, face blotchy, wearing jeans and this ugly sweater Billy’s never seen in his life, something he must have thrown together.

Joy surges in an ocean up Billy’s throat in its purest form, a full-bodied happiness he’s never experienced before.

“Steve!” Billy laughs, bright and hysterical.

Steve whips himself towards the sound –

His mouth drops open, eyes wide and red-rimmed, and then he’s stumbling forward, he’s –

The scent smacks Billy at first, a _relief_ so strong it coats his whole mouth, his gums, teeth, everything. Then that feeling again, stronger, that sense of place and home and _belonging_.

Billy flies into Steve.

Steve drops the torch, gathers Billy into his arms instantly, gathers him up in his strong hold, and Billy shoves his nose into the crook of Steve’s neck and inhales hard.

A million sensations rush him at once. The smell of Steve’s salty skin, his sweat, the hint of his deodorant.

But stronger than any of that is Steve’s natural scent – something earthy and warm, like the impression of sunlight. It touches every part of Billy, heats him from the inside, the smell of a summer day and the washing line in the garden of his old home, the fresh laundry that Billy ran through while his mom chased him.

The longer Billy smells, the more he unearths: the smell of that night November 2nd when Neil and mom took him to the fair and Billy tried candyfloss for the first time, the smell of his pillow after a hard training session, the smell of a hard-won victory over another basketball team, the smell of that day up at the quarry, the way Steve’s body curved inwards as Billy made him laugh, the way they sat close on the hood of Steve’s Beemer and Steve smiled at Billy for the first time and the sense of triumph washed over him.

“Billy.” Steve gasps, his nose mashed into Billy’s shoulder, his hands clutching Billy’s bare back.

Billy pulls back to press their foreheads together.

Steve’s face is tear-streaked, eyes red-raw. He’s shaking.

“I thought.” Steve rasps, choked. “Where. Where _the fuck_ _have you been?”_

And then he pushes Billy away.

Billy staggers on his feet.

Steve shoves at his chest. “I fucking– what the _fuck!”_ He cries, eyes wide, wild. His scent changes: anger rolls off him, tinged with fear and pain. “We’ve been searching for you for _four hours!_ We thought you’d run into a fucking _Demogorgon!_ We thought you – we almost – do you fucking realise how _worried_ everyone was! Your dad has the whole town out looking for you! He said you _ran away!_ You fucking ran away, nobody could find you, and I thought – I thought you were _dead,_ Billy!” Steve cuts off with an odd sob, like an inhale gone wrong.

Billy steps forward instantly.

“Steve.” He reaches out and cups Steve’s jaw.

Steve stops. He blinks wet eyes at Billy, stunned silent.

“I can’t believe I found you.” Billy says. He lifts his other hand so he’s holding Steve’s face. It’s small in his hands, protected and safe. Billy rubs a thumb along Steve’s cheek. “I didn’t think I would. I thought I would have to give up. But I found you.”

And Billy isn’t just talking about tonight. He thought he would give up, the same as everybody. He resigned himself to loving somebody but never experiencing the soul bond of a mate, never knowing the strength of that emotion.

But he found Steve. By some miracle, he found Steve.

“Billy?” Steve runs his own hand up Billy’s wrist and places his hand over Billy’s knuckles. He holds Billy’s hand against his face. His voice is quiet, eyes roving over Billy’s face. “What are you –”

“Where the hell did you two idiots go!” Dustin cries.

Steve jolts and turns around, dislodging Billy’s hands from his face.

“I’ve been wandering around the same tree for ten minutes!” Dustin carries on. “You couldn’t have shouted over that you’d found him?”

“Sorry.” Steve says, breathless.

“Is he okay?” Dustin asks, even though Billy is right here.

“Yeah.” Steve nods. “He’s not hurt. We’re just coming.”

“Then let’s _go._ The whole of Hawkins is out looking!” Dustin marches off.

Steve glances at Billy, reaches over to squeeze Billy’s wrist, and then he follows.

Billy takes a step to go after them.

That’s as far as he gets. The creeping darkness in the sides of his vision enfolds him; Billy doesn’t remember anything after that.

*

When Billy wakes this time, he’s warm and comfortable. He peels his eyes open sluggishly, blinks at his surroundings.

It’s a room he’s never seen before, but instantly he knows Steve is in it.

He can feel Steve’s presence, his heat, his smell. Everything is fine. Everything is okay. Steve is close by.

Billy lets out a gentle exhale and settles back into the soft material he’s on.

The instincts that drove him out into Hawkins in the middle of the night in nothing but a pair of flannels have simmered down into a quiet hum inside him.

He still wants Steve – wants to touch him, scent him, _hold_ him – but his body needs the rest. His instincts have been overridden by plain old, bone deep exhaustion.

Weirdest rut of his goddamn _life._ By this stage Billy would be climbing the walls. In a very literal sense.

Normally, Billy would have clawed, bitten and pinched at every available inch of himself, would be tearing his fucking mullet out in mindless rage.

The itch to find his mate would have turned into a full-bodied hunger, a gaping hole in the pit of his stomach that nothing could fill, a rash across his entire skin that nothing could soothe.

For four days. 96 hours. 24/7. It wouldn’t stop, not even for a single second.

But Billy found his mate. He’ll never feel that way again.

Every rut from now until the end of time will feel like _this._

He’s safe, content. Steve’s scent surrounds him. Billy can pick up worry still, a bitter aftertaste in the roof of his mouth, but it’s mostly washed away by an overwhelming _gladness_ , so strong it’s almost indescribable, it’s almost something else, something bigger, stronger, _more_.

Billy floats in it, knows the feeling exists because of him, knows that Steve is radiating such a sense of – not pride or joy, but something that falls in-between, and it’s all because of Billy.

It’s hard to explain how Billy knows Steve feels this way because of him. It’s the same as trying to explain how Billy knows what Steve is feeling at all, how he can distinguish between the emotions, tell the difference between happiness and anger and fear.

It’s the smallest things, the slightest change in the sourness to Steve’s scent, the slightest increase of sweetness. Billy’s nose picks it up and instantly it translates as _terror_ , or _relief_ , or _frustration_.

There’s a little frustration creeping in, and Billy frowns, turns his head and tries to open his eyes to find the source. He can hear snatches of conversation, muddy and indistinct –

“Ever even been around an Alpha during one –” A voice says.

“No, but I’m telling you he’ll be fine with me, we’re not taking him to some specialist –”

Steve.

Billy wakes up a little to tune in.

“Steve, you don’t know how Billy will react, and his family are happy to take him home –”

Billy’s brain recognises Chief Hopper’s voice after a beat, finally connects the dots. He forces himself awake, takes a sharp inhale and tries to sit.

His body is weak and uncooperative, but Billy manages to half rise before there’s a startled gasp.

“The fuck – Billy, _lie down_ , you’ve got hypothermia you idiot.” Steve’s hands are on his shoulders, his chest, pushing him back. Billy is powerless.

He opens his eyes to Steve’s face above him, lines etched into his forehead and around his bloodshot eyes, face ashy pale.

Billy lifts a hand and touches Steve’s cheek.

“Steve.” He manages, but his voice is reedy and broken.

“Don’t talk. Drink. Here.” Steve turns away.

The lip of a glass is pressed to Billy’s mouth and titled up.

Billy gulps down the water greedily, didn’t even realise he was thirsty to begin with. His hands, however, find Steve and clutch at him – one going around his wrist to pull him closer, the other fisting in his t-shirt to make sure he doesn’t get away.

It makes Steve lose his balance, stumble a little before he drops into sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Billy –” Steve tries, still holding the glass albeit a little awkwardly.

Billy finishes and pulls back, tugs on Steve’s t-shirt to try and pull him closer.

“What is it?” Steve asks.

“Can you.” Billy whispers, though he doesn’t want to ask, doesn’t want to articulate it, to put it into words.

He feels like Steve should just _know_ , instinctively, what his mate wants. There must be some instinct, some sense, of what Billy is asking for.

“What?” Steve’s eyes are wide and searching. He sets the glass down on the bedside table and then his hands are free, but they hover over Billy as if afraid to touch. “What, what is it Billy?”

Billy huffs a frustrated sigh through his noise, but it’s Hopper who answers.

“ _Jesus_ , Steve, you never said anything about being mates.” Hopper says, staring at them with wide eyes. Billy doesn’t really know what gave it away; maybe Billy’s total lack of aggression towards Steve being so close, maybe his frantic grip to force him closer. And then Hopper gives his wide-eyed look to Steve. “You _do_ know, don’t you?”

“Yes, of course.” Steve replies in frustration, barely even turns around. “It’s platonic, Hop.”

Hopper’s mouth is open.

He looks at Steve, looks at Billy, then back to Steve.

Billy doesn’t meet Hopper’s gaze.

He can’t look at anything but Steve. “What.” His voice is a rasp. He shuffles up on the bed, cold all over. “What do you mean?”

Steve blinks at him. “Billy, we know this. Remember?”

Does he not feel it? Does he not smell Billy? Doesn’t he realise that – that he’s off blockers, that his Alpha nature has broken through, that he’s _Billy’s mate?_

Unless he’s decided that it’s platonic.

Unless, just like the way they discussed, Steve knows all this but he’s decided that it’s a platonic mate bond anyway. The way they said, _then we’ll know for sure._

Steve knows for sure now. He's scented Billy during rut, and he feels nothing.

Despite every single one of Billy’s instincts clamouring to be closer, clamouring to shove his nose into Steve’s throat and mark him, to take Steve into his arms and never let go –

Steve doesn’t feel it.

Billy throws the sheets off and stumbles onto his feet.

“Woah, woah –” Steve reaches for him, but Billy flinches away.

Steve’s arms fall, shocked.

“Go away.” Billy states.

Steve’s scent sharpens instantly, floods with bitter distress. “What?”

“Just go, Steve.” Billy stares at the floor. He never noticed it before, but he’s wearing Steve’s jumper. Steve must have taken it off when Billy passed out, found clothes for himself only after they’d made it back.

The thought hurts Billy’s throat. He doesn’t want reminded of Steve’s kindness when he’s being told that Steve doesn’t feel the same.

“Why? What did I say? What happened?” Steve’s voice is brittle and high, ready to break. “Billy, please.”

For some reason, that’s the thing that snaps something inside Billy. That’s the thing to really put the nail in the coffin. Tears rise up within seconds. Before Billy can even blink them back, they’re streaming down his face in a steady flow.

“It’s.” He swallows, then looks up. He knows his eyes are bloodshot and his cheeks are wet, but it doesn’t matter. He might be a lot of fucking things, but he’s not a coward. “It’s not platonic for me, Steve.”

Steve doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe, doesn’t blink. His face is empty.

“It’s not for me, either.” Steve says.

Billy blinks. His eyelashes are clumped; he scrubs at them and frowns. “Huh?”

He takes a quick inventory of Steve’s scent. It’s flowering and fresh, full of hope.

As if Billy really even needed the scent to know that. Steve’s big, shining eyes would have been clue enough. He’s a goddamn Bambi.

“You’re serious?” Billy asks, chokes out a laugh a little, because he feels fucking silly stood here with tears on his face if it’s all for fucking nothing.

“I thought you knew.” Steve’s face breaks apart in a grin. “I thought you knew this whole time.”

“This _whole_ time?” Billy repeats, but he can feel his own answering beam form, feel his own hope burst open in his chest.

Steve laughs, high and a little hysterical. “Yeah! You knew we were mates but you never said anything! So I just thought you knew how I felt about you, you could sense it or something, but you didn’t want me to know about us being basically soulmates.”

Suddenly, Steve’s mortified tomato face makes a lot more sense. His furious pacing, his hands through his hair.

He thought if Billy knew they were mates the whole time, he also knew that Steve had feelings for him.

“ _As_ motherfucking _if!”_ Billy booms, mouth agape. “I had no fucking idea!”

“But I freaking – I _asked you_ Billy!” Steve laughs back. “I asked if you felt it too, that day we first met, that need to be close to me too, and you said you ‘weren’t sure’. I thought that was you blowing me off!”

“Fuck no.” Billy states, voice hard. “Fuck no, Steve. That was me being a goddamn idiot and trying to hide how fucking gone I was, how gone I _am_.”

Steve stares at him.

“Can I kiss you?” He breathes.

Billy’s heart leaps so high, it hits the back of his throat. “I will if you fuckin’ don’t.”

Steve grins manically. He takes a step forward, then looks to his side quickly.

Billy follows his gaze.

Hopper is gone.

Steve turns back to him. His manic grin takes on a new edge, eyes feverish and bright.

Billy meets him halfway, hands already out like a kid in a candy store.

He finds Steve easily, and has just wrapped both arms around Steve’s waist, pulling him close into his chest, when Steve’s mouth falls on his.

It’s the same as that moment in the forest: that same feeling of _finally,_ of I _found you, I have you,_ of _belonging_ and _contentment_ and _peace._

Steve’s mouth is soft; Billy curls a hand around his jaw and tilts him for a better angle, opens his own mouth wide and touches his tongue to Steve’s bottom lip, his teeth, his gums, practically trying to devour him.

Steve’s hands roam across Billy’s back, run through his hair, fist in his jumper and yank him in until they’re pressed all the way flush.

Steve opens his mouth too, bites on the fleshy skin of Billy’s lip, takes a hold of his face and keeps in there as he kisses Billy fucking senseless, kisses him with furious determination, as if dedicated to the act.

Billy’s instincts has been a low hum in the background, but now they’re waking up; they’re taking note of the fact that Billy has his goddamn mate in his arms after all this time and should probably make the most out of this opportunity.

Steve pulls away first, but only to pepper kisses to Billy’s face, eyelids, forehead, cheeks, nose. Billy laughs delightedly, cradles the back of Steve’s head and cards fingers through his hair.

“You fucking,” Steve huffs against the side of face, “ _Idiot_ , Hargrove, ‘oh yeah, we’re soulmates but no biggie, everything’s breezy.’”

“I never in my _life_.” Billy seizes his chance and instantly shoves his nose into Steve’s throat. His scent is concentrated here, _happinessarousalexcitement_ and that same feeling of sunlight. “Said that, Harrington.” Billy takes a deep lungful, hoists Steve up in his arms, squeezes the breath right out of him.

Steve laughs in delight anyways, until Billy pulls back and pants, “Can’t you smell it, Steve?”

Steve tilts his head back to get a better look at Billy. “Smell what?”

“How I’m fucking feeling?” Billy laughs. “And the fact that I’m your _mate.”_

Steve’s face is curiously blank. “I don’t … I don’t smell anything.”

Billy blinks. “Not ... _Nothing?”_

Steve shakes his head. “What is it you smell?”

“I can smell … _everything_ , Steve. I can smell how you’re feeling, I can smell how happy you are, I can smell that you're aroused –”  
  
“Damn.” Steve’s cheeks burn hot. “That's freaking embarrassing."

“But.” Billy turns Steve’s chin up to meet his eyes. “I can only scent that because I’m this close, and only really scent so much because we’re _mates_ , Steve. Don’t you – can’t you scent me too?”

Steve’s gaze is searching. “No." His voice is quiet. "I don’t smell anything. You smell normal, Billy. Just, you know. A little sweaty, a little dirty from the forest.”

“You don’t smell – any emotion?" Billy presses. "Anything?”

Steve shakes his head once again, silent.

And once again, it makes sense. Of course it does.

If Steve was searching for him, he would’ve had enough sense to just sniff him out. If Steve could scent Billy’s emotions, he would have known Billy had no clue about Steve’s feelings. He would have known Billy felt the exact same way. He would have felt the happiness that Billy did when he found Steve, would have smelled that day that Billy’s rut came on and the reason why. Would have smelled Billy’s reaction to Steve's scent.

But he didn’t.

“It’s not that big a deal, Steve.” Billy starts, because if Steve is one of the rare Alphas that doesn’t have the ability to scent, then it’s not going to be some type of dealbreaker, it’s not going to affect anything between them, it’s not going to _mean anything._

“I don’t – I don’t know if I ever could, even before blockers.” Steve’s eyes dart around the room. “I don’t remember; it was so long ago.”  
  
“Hey.” Billy states, and Steve looks at him.

“It doesn’t matter.” Billy palms Steve’s cheek; swipes a thumb over the skin.

Steve swallows. “What is it like?” He murmurs.

"I don't know how to describe it." Billy replies honestly. "It's just something that's always been."

“I mean, what do _I_ smell like?” Steve's voice goes even quieter.

Billy smiles. “You smell fucking fantastic, Steve.”

Steve laughs in surprise, eyebrows high. “Vast improvement from ‘ _Jeez, you stink_.’”

And Christ, isn't that a million years ago? Billy remembers the sudden and abrupt distaste when he first smelled Steve, warring with the instantaneous instinct to pull him close. 

“Well, _you_ didn’t, those goddamn blockers did.” Billy defends. “You smell like every good thing in the world, Steve. Absolutely every thing. I can’t never get enough. I'd have about died if you weren't on blockers when we met.”

Steve smile softens, his eyes warm. “I wish I could smell you.”

Billy swallows, throat tight. “It doesn’t matter.”  
  
Steve bites the inside of his cheek. “What. I mean what if it does, though? What if we can’t form a bond? What if I’m not able to bond to you, even though we’re mates? Isn't it part of bonding?”  
  
“Then – then fuck it, Steve.” Billy decides. “I don’t give a shit. Nothing is a dealbreaker for me.” He takes Steve’s face and presses their foreheads together. “Nothing, okay? I literally –”

He can’t say it. It’s too soon.

“Do not give a shit.” Billy finishes. “About anything. As long as I have you.”

Steve touches his face, fingertips gentle and tentative. His eyes are dark and serious, set on Billy's face as if trying to commit it to memory. They stay that way for a little while.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man alive, it's been a hot minute! 💥💥💥 I am so sorry!!
> 
> Thank you to all returning readers and hello to the new ones, you all mean so much. I of course have a million reasons for my long almost 6 month absence (WHAT the hell, time exists in a vacuum I swear), but the main ones are that I started my MLitt degree online and then I miraculously wrote a new novel as well. 
> 
> I've written 3 novels before, but I've only ever queried one (in 2019). It ended in all rejections apart from some personal replies that were on the fence but ultimately passed. Point being, I'm very used to this stage in the process. But I'm back in the query trenches with Novel No. 4, and I'm very quickly seeing the same stats. 
> 
> Just yesterday, I got a reply to a full request with a form rejection letter. This was all the more hurtful because this agent and me had an open dialogue/rapport as she passed on my old book and was keen to see new stuff! Life does not make sense sometimes. I have had a lot of blows and a lot of brutal feedback on my work, but damn some hurt more than others.
> 
> I am feeling rather defeated and tired, and honestly, fanfic is usually the cure all for those types of feelings. I feel very stuck and stagnant in writing at the moment; I don't seem able to progress whatsoever with getting published.
> 
> I suppose this is an open call to anyone with experience querying; any tips? Honestly, commiseration would also be wonderful at this point.

When Billy first comes to awareness again, everything is bathed in light and sunshine; he’s comfortable, warm, and safe.

So – a dream, then.

Billy makes a noise and tries to burrow further into the space between the mattress and the pillow, holding his eyes shut and willing himself to sink back into unconsciousness, no matter how impossible he knows it is.

The scent of peace, of belonging, engulfs him but Billy knows it’ll be gone in a few seconds. That somehow his brain has conjured up the smell of every good moment in his life, but as soon as he so much as blinks it’s over.

Good dreams are a bitch.

Billy hates them with the heat of a thousand suns. He hates them a thousand times more than he ever will the bad ones. Because with the bad dreams, he’s _glad_ to wake up. He’s relieved.

With the good ones, Billy’s got an ache in his gut the size of Texas, and he needs to drag it around with him all the next day. With the good ones, it's like some cosmic middle finger that waves itself in Billy’s face: ‘hey there, yeah you, you know your deepest and darkest desires? Well here’s what it would be like if you actually had them. But not for long! Ha! Hilarious, right?”

It’s like some sick, twisted torture his own brain subjects itself to, imagines up just for the absolute hell of it, projects across his subconsciousness and forces him to live, just for a moment, just so he can get a taste of how good life actually could be if everything wasn’t _shit_.

So yeah, Billy fucking hates them.

And he’s been getting them a lot fucking more since coming to Hawkins.

As if discovering some alternative alien life isn’t enough to ensure nightmares for the next ten years, no. Billy’s brain has gone and done the complete opposite, of course.

He’s that messed up in the head that despite having a near death experience – encountering what anyone would reasonably call a _‘monster’_ , and then finding out there’s more of them, _a lot_ more of them, that one girl died and another kid almost did too – it still hasn’t had any effect on the blissful imaginings his brain makes up.

Nope. Nada. None. Doesn’t even seem to _brush_ the torrent of good dreams Billy’s been drowning under the last couple of months.

Some part of him thinks that it’s because he’s been living in survival mode the last five years, that he practically lives with a monster in his house, eats with a monster at the dinner table, and sleeps with a monster snoring down the hall – how much could some ugly looking dog with its skin on inside-out change that? Plus, it’s kind of a relief to know that monsters can look monstrous on the outside too – that they don’t wear human clothes and walk around with a human face and smile and speak and look just like everyone else.

That, at least in Hawkins, monsters and men are pretty separate things.

The bigger part – the biggest part – knows that it’s Steve. Of course it’s Steve. It’s always been Steve.

As soon as Billy met Steve he knew he was gone. Done. He’d never have a good dream that didn’t feature Steve goddamn Harrington.

And Christ, if that isn’t sappy and true at the same time. There’s a lot more sappiness where it came from a well. It’s as if people just has this endless well of sentimental mush inside, and it just takes the right person to unlock it. Billy’s always been above the roses and the chocolates, always sneered and scoffed, but he’d about melt in a puddle if Steve did any of that.

Because swear down, Billy thought this romance shit was a joke or at the very least _exaggerated_ for the movies until he met Steve.

The sex ones aren’t the worst ones, not by a long shot. They just leave Billy frustrated and hard and ready to explode, chasing the last vestiges of a made-up memory where Steve pulled him close, pressed him down, rubbed all over him, against him, _inside_ him.

They leave Billy furiously grinding into sheets, half-mad with lust, but it’s something of a familiar state.

It’s a state he finds himself in every six or seven months. It’s not beautiful, but Mother Nature rarely fucking is. The way she makes life – all that screaming, all the blood, the umbilical cord and the fluids – yeah. Mother Nature has never been pretty.

Billy is pretty sure she exists just to torture them.

Nobody knows that more than Alphas.

Sure, Omegas and Betas don’t get away with nothing – but there are varying levels to it all. Even watching an Alpha in rut – no matter your own inclination or nature – is said to be a pretty pitiful sight.

The good dreams, though. Billy wishes he could surgically remove them from his brain. Cut the tissue out where they’ve embedded into him, sow his skin back up and pretend they never happened.

Because the good dreams linger.

Billy and Steve laughing, in someplace they go often; a _real_ memory, real enough to trick Billy into thinking he’s awake. A soft touch, and then Steve’s lips pressed to his, gentle hands holding him, and Billy wakes up and –

It’s not frustration. It’s not anger.

He wakes up sad. He’s self-aware enough to know the feeling, can admit to it like a big boy. The good dreams hurt because they’re not real, but they’re real enough. They're an echo of real, a _close-not-quite_ , a trying to reach real, trying to stretch the very ends of his fingertips to grab it real.

It’s the fact that Billy falls for it every time. He’s like a little kid that always reacts perfectly no matter how many times the prank is played on him.

Every time, every single dream where Steve kisses him or they’re lying together, Billy’s heart kicks up into overdrive, his palms itch and go clammy, the jolt of elated nervous energy bursts open in his gut – and it’s _real_.

The dreams might not be, but the feelings are. They don’t just fade away. They don’t just disappear when he opens his eyes.

And when Billy does open his eyes, faced with the reality of his empty pillow, it’s almost the same as Steve rejecting Billy right to his face. The glow of happiness is flushed away like a toilet handle being yanked, and the overwhelming sadness hits.

This time, though.

Billy feels the dream slipping away from him as he gains more consciousness, but the warmth, the peace – it doesn’t leave. It feels as if the scents are growing _stronger_.

It’s coming back to Billy – reality. But this time Billy doesn’t screw his eyes up against it.

It’s being pieced together slowly: his rut hit and he needed to find Steve, he _did_ find Steve, he could scent Steve finally, and then they talked, and somehow that led to …

Billy’s heart leaps like it’s never leapt before, his pulse a frantic beat as though he’s running for his life.

Because if this is some really extended dream sequence right now, the sadness might actually kill him this time. It’ll be too great a blow, to open his eyes and see the same familiar edge of his pillow. Somehow, for some reason, Billy knows it’s just one time too many. He’ll be confined to this bed chasing back this good dream for the rest of eternity.

“Are you awake?” Comes the croaky whisper of one Steve Harrington.

Everything in Billy freezes. All his muscles lock.

Of all the possible reactions to this moment turning out to be real — Billy never thought it would be nothing.

He's absolutely paralysed.

Stiffly, Billy turns his head and peeks one eye out from underneath the pillow.

Steve is looking down at him, one curl of hair hanging over his forehead. He’s leaning on an elbow, eyes soft and slanted, smile loose and easy. He’s never been this close to Billy before, and who knew beautiful people close up are _more beautiful?_

They’re not marble statues that reveal the slightest chips and cracks the closer you get. Steve is even better here than he is from a distance. Every detail is magnified and sharpened. His teeth appear in his smile the longer Billy stares, peeking out from behind soft lips.

“You look really cute in the morning.”

Billy inhales sharply, surprised, and then he’s assaulted with Steve’s scent – Steve has a _scent_ – and he can barely catalogue the barrage of information it holds within it: affection at the forefront, almost an alien smell to Billy but for how his brain instantly recognises it, stores the specific warm fuzzy feeling at the back of Billy’s throat as that emotion.

There’s attraction too, a more familiar one, but Billy’s used to it as a passing thing, a quick awareness that comes and goes throughout the day, but dissipates as quickly as it had come.

Steve’s attraction is single-minded and focused. Billy’s feels the heat of it emanate off Steve in rolling waves, even though Steve isn’t looking anywhere but Billy’s face. He feels _this_ strongly attracted to Billy’s face? The sheets are covering the better half of Billy's torso, only really his shoulders available to the eyes. Steve isn’t even _seeing_ any of Billy other than his face.

It’s a specific hot and smoky smell, the undercurrent of spice and the slight tang of salt. Billy swats it away every day like a nuisance, never really bothers to acknowledge it at all, but now.

Now Billy wants to roll around it, bottle it, because it’s coming from _Steve_.

Jesus, if Billy smelled _this_ off Steve at any point, he’d have a hard time not tackling Steve to the floor. At this very moment, Billy might do that.

He lifts his head out from under the pillow softly, slowly. He keeps his eyes on Steve the whole time – Steve’s wonderfully gentle, creased brown eyes, that small smile over his pink mouth – as though Steve is a spooked animal. Or just an illusion that will disappear when Billy blinks.

Steve watches him, part amusement and part fondness, a heady intoxication to Billy’s already overstimulated senses. Billy goes up onto his elbows too, goes close to Steve’s face, not touching any part of him.

The fullness of his bladder presses into his belly, and the stiffness of his joints aches across his back when he moves, and he must have discarded his t-shirt in the night, bare-chested, with what feel like soft flannel trousers on underneath. Steve’s. They must be Steve’s. He feels everything, the mattress, the discomfort, the heat.

This is real. This is reality.

“Billy?” Steve asks, and a trickle of concern wafts across, before Steve lifts a hand and presses the backs of his fingers to Billy’s forehead.

His touch is gentle and warm, his face close. “You feel okay. Your fever broke sometime in the night I think. You’re luck you’ve got such a crazy jacked immune system from all your training. You could’ve caught pneumonia, idiot.”

Billy feels like if he speaks, it’ll shatter this moment. He’s not exactly sure he’s ready to believe that it all happened – the rut, the forest, finding Steve, confessing to him, hearing Steve say he feels the same. It’s all just a bit too unbelievable at this point. His brain is tricking him into thinking it’s real.

But Steve is here – he’s _here_ , inches away from Billy, a light in his eyes and a softness to his features.

Billy, slowly, slowly, edges closer. He shuffles up until he’s just touching Steve’s nose with his own. He keeps staring at Steve, utterly silent. He’s pretty sure his eyesight is going fuzzy this close to Steve’s face – and he can see those familiar freckles just dusted over Steve’s nose, the specific mottled colour of his eyes, and it’s slowly beginning to sink in.

Steve’s hand falls from his forehead, but instead of dropping away, he slides his palm over Billy’s cheek. Billy turns his cheek and traps Steve’s hand against his shoulder. He closes his eyes again. He opens them, and Steve is still there.

“Billy?” Steve whispers. “Are you feeling okay? Do you need any water?”

Steve must think Billy is delirious. Maybe Billy is.

“Hey.” Billy manages, but he might as well drop the cool and cocksure act with how he’s reacted thus far. Which is pretty telling, he won’t lie. Staring at somebody as though you can't believe they're real ... doesn't really leave much room for debate.

Steve breaks into a beam, relief instantaneous. “I was so worried about you, I barely slept. I literally kept guard like one of those Alphas in the movies.”

Billy feels his own answering beam, feels the way it stretches his face in ways his face has never been stretched. “Yeah?” His voice is husky and dark, a bare rasp, gravelling inside his chest as if he’s not spoken for days.

It’s then he feels how _dry_ his throat is, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth, his gums glued to his teeth.

Steve rolls away then, and Billy barely has a chance to blink before he’s back with a glass of water. Billy takes it gratefully, gulps it down even though its almost lukewarm now, clearly sat there all night.

Steve watches him finish it all, and then Billy does finish and he shifts guiltily, still holding the empty glass. “Uh. Did you want some?”

Steve smiles again. “No. Just making sure you’re okay.”

Billy feels himself blush at Steve’s earnest gaze, feels the heat spill down to his chest, but then Steve makes a little noise, a huffed breath.

“Billy, can you just tell me what you’re feeling about all this, I’m going crazy.” He shuffles even closer as he says it, as if to crawl inside Billy and find out for himself.

Billy blinks, thrown. Then he realises Steve isn’t getting the same feedback that Billy is: can’t smell every little emotion permeating the air like Billy can.

Billy can sense Steve’s affection, his hope, but also his anxiety. Steve’s brown eyes are focused on him, following his every twitch and movement, the bob of Billy’s throat and the shift of his shoulders.

It’s a strange sensation; almost as though Billy is privy to something he shouldn’t be.

With other Alphas – hell, with other Omegas and Betas too – Billy’s never been worried he’s somehow invading their private thoughts or personal space. Everyone knows how to project emotion and how to restrain it as well; and everyone knows that emotions are something as easily readable as a facial expression or spoken dialogue. Feelings are as much in the air around people as they is in their words and their posture.

But it’s not that way with Steve. With Steve, he can’t scent Billy: he can’t scent anything, or anyone. And he doesn’t have a clue just how much he’s projecting every single thing he’s feeling.

Billy can’t give Steve the same. He can’t offer up his scent and with it, the raging storm of emotion inside. He can’t gift Steve the ability to scent him either.

Billy swallows thickly, because maybe he can do the next best thing. “Steve.” Billy murmurs. His voice is a little softer, gentler, less of a rasp. “I kind of think I must be dreaming right now. I don’t – I hardly remember much of last night. But I’ve honestly thought about this … every single day since we met.”

There. It’s done.

Billy immediately knows he made the right call.

It turns out that if Billy wants this, which he does more than anything in his life, he’s going to need to learn to be a lot more vocal.

Because happiness floods the roof of his mouth, so strong that Billy can’t fight against the grin it produces. Steve, of course, is an open book – his beam wide, eyes alight, face glowing.

“Yeah?” Steve asks, almost breathless.

It gets underneath Billy’s skin and spreads throughout his entire body: tingles in his very fingertips and toes, pulsates in his belly. 

Billy’s never been subjected to so much stimuli to his senses before. More than that: he’s never been on the receiving end of such direct emotion. _Steve’s emotion._

Steve’s emotions for _Billy._

But Steve can’t sense any of this. He isn’t getting any of the same feedback from Billy that Billy is getting from him.

It would be so much simpler to just open himself up and let Steve scent all of Billy’s feelings too. But it’s not possible.

Billy needs to communicate.

Of everything Billy ever imagined he’d sacrifice to the Gods for Steve to look his way, he never thought the only thing he’d need to do would be _talk._

He inhales deep, preparing himself, and closes his eyes so he doesn’t have to look at anything while he does this.

Because clearly he _needs_ to do this, going by Steve’s incredulous expression.

“Steve, unless you had some kinda different idea from last night, I was out looking for you. I was out there, in the woods, _for you_. My rut was coming, and I knew I would … I’d try to find you, because you’re my mate and it’s not. It’s never been a platonic mate bond for me. It’s always been a – a romantic one.” Billy is barely getting these words out; he seriously hopes Steve appreciates this effort, no matter how croaky.

“But then I could scent – I caught a little bit of your scent coming through, at your house, and it threw me into a rut early, that’s why I had to leave when we were playing basketball. I had to get away, so I wouldn’t … I’m seriously _in deep,_ Steve. I nearly fucking froze to death looking for you because I couldn’t ride it out alone when I could feel you so close. Even if that just meant collapsing at your feet.”

There’s gentle breathing, soft and slow. Billy would be crawling out of his mind right out were it not for the fact that he can feel the warm balm of Steve’s joy like sunlight across his face.

“I see.” Steve murmurs. “So you – last night, you were looking for me?”

Billy swallows, and nods. Even with the reassurance of Steve's mutual feelings, it only helps make this a little easier.

“But aren’t you in rut right now?” Steve asks softly. “Has it passed?”

“A rut is only to find a mate.” Billy whispers, and turns his face away to the pillow. “Once you’ve found them, it’s up to you what you do then.”

All cards on the table.  
  
“But doesn't it also make you want to … you know … _mate?”_

“It doesn’t turn you into an animal, Steve.” Billy says, brows furrowing as he looks up.

Steve’s face floods beetroot. “No, I don’t –”

“I know.” Billy says gently, and braves it – bridges the gap between them and runs his pinkie finger over Steve’s wrist. “I just meant – once you’ve found a mate, and you’ve established that you’re both compatible, the frenzy clears and you can decide where to go from there. Would be pretty difficult if you found your mate in some stranger, and wanted to rip their clothes off before you even got a chance to find out their name.”

“I mean. That makes sense.” Steve confesses. “It’s just – all the books made it seem –”

“It’s there.” Billy assures. “You know, the need. To - to mate. It’ll stay there, until you … cement the bond." Billy's whole face is a freshly roasted tomato. "But the need to find them is gone, and that’s the biggest part of it. After that disappears, you’re free to talk like - you know, like we’re doing now. And sort of ignore the other stuff.”

And it _can_ be ignored, because Billy has never gotten to this stage before, but he's heard about it. That it simmers at a low boil, ready to spill over, but it's something easily suppressed. Billy was almost worried it wasn't true; surely once you've found your mate, that overrides all logical and rational thinking? Surely at that point, only a meteor could stop him?

But it's true. Billy has had enough lessons in suppressing his shit to know that. The heat, the need - he can feel it all, but he can just as easily squash it down.

The overwhelming scent of relief is palpable.

Billy swallows and tries not to broadcast any disappointment back. He knows it would be illogical to expect Steve to immediately want to roll around and cement their mate bond right this second, especially since they’ve only gotten together and are still finding their feet.

But that scent doesn’t do much to reassure.

“It’s not – it doesn’t force anything.” Billy turns and murmurs to the pillow. “The mate has to be receptive, and it only needs to be cemented if it’s not a platonic bond. With a platonic bond, when the search is over the rut is over. So.”

“Billy.” Steve states strongly, and then slides a hand from Billy's face over Billy’s bare back, smoothing down his spine. The sensation is like a warm honey, and Billy’s eyes flutter in bliss. It builds in the base of his back: a low throb that seeps inside, and Billy does his best to contain any noise with a clamped jaw. He can’t help the very minute, very slight shifting of his hips up to meet that touch.

“I’m _very_ receptive.” Steve’s voice is husky. “And it’s really, _really_ not platonic.”

Billy’s breaths come a little harsher, and he turns to stare at Steve, the dark way his eyes have gone.

“I just don’t want to rush.” Steve carries on. “I – I rushed these things, before. You think it’s not important, that it doesn’t mean anything, but it does. This matters to me. I want to do everything right.”

Billy swallows. “It matters to me too, Steve. I never even done anything before. I mean, nothin' more than a fumble at some party that never really ended in much for either one involved.”

Steve gazes at him for a moment, processing. This is Steve’s Processing Face. “Really?”

Billy huffs, exasperated, but not without fondness. “Like I said, Steve, for Alphas and Omegas it’s hard for us to get interested in some passing fun. For Betas it can be no strings, but for us, it’s not that simple. If we’re not in rut, then getting to that stage where we feel like it takes forever. I mean, you’d have to _really_ like the person. And I’ve never felt that way.”

“But what about the person you told me about before?”

Billy blinks, totally thrown.

“That person, when I told you about Nance, and asked if you’d ever been in love. You said no, but you know what it feels like to want somebody who doesn’t want you.”

Billy turns away and stares at his pillow. “I was talking about you, Steve.”

There’s a sharp spike, regret mingled with relief and weirdly – _arousal._

“Oh.” Steve breathes, punched out. Billy doesn’t glance up, but Steve’s finger tucks a curl over Billy’s ear. “Good. Because … man, Nance can’t really hold a candle to you. And I’d unfortunately have to hunt down whoever was about to stand in my way.”

Billy’s heart goes all weird and static, like a loose electrical wire. It feels as though he’s been tasered in the chest. “Have you – have you seriously been thinking there’s somebody else this whole time?”

“What can I say, the mind when left to its own devices.” Steve waggles his fingers near his head. “And you have to admit, you gave me a pretty hard puzzle to unlock. How was I meant to figure that out?”  
  
“That was the point. You weren't.” Billy leans in close again; he’s sort of done with talking. He’s sort of done with everything that isn’t touching Steve. They’ve discussed everything he was hoping to discuss, and now Steve Harrington is inches away, and saying all sorts of things Billy is pretty sure he couldn’t have dreamed up if he tried. “What’s this about Wheeler not holding a candle to me?”

Steve grins back, leaning just as close, his nose brushing Billy’s before a hand travels from Billy’s back up along his side to cradle Billy’s jaw again. “Yup. ‘Fraid I realised that the night you slept at mine. I already thought you were hot as the goddamn sun, for sure, but after that it was like a switch went off in my brain. Being with you – it’s just always been so much better than being with anyone else.” He punctuates that thought with a thumb-pad run over Billy’s bottom lip, and Billy can’t really be blamed for making noise then.

It’s a soft exhalation, just a puff of air, but it seems to switch a flip for Steve a second time.

Steve descends on his mouth, teeth and lips and tongue, as if he really is trying to somehow crawl inside. Billy groans aloud at the sudden end to their tentative dance, at the feeling of Steve’s mouth on his, wet and hot and desperate, thinks _fuck it_ and pulls Steve down on top of him.

They’re both only wearing flannel pyjama pants, must have shed the rest of their clothes in the night, and the sensation of their bare chests finally pressed against one another is like motherfucking _crack cocaine,_ Jesus Christ.

Billy feels noises tumble out his mouth and against Steve’s, his hands tightening to claw at Steve’s smooth, flawless back, raking nails down and gripping his hips. Steve is just as responsive, hands roaming everywhere at once, his body moving to slide against Billy’s, one leg slotting in between–

And then Steve suddenly flies back and sits at the edge of the bed.

Billy is so stunned he does nothing for a beat. He just breathes, gasping for air, staring up at the ceiling in shock.

“Sorry.” Steve states, voice rough and low. “I’m sorry. I said we’d go slow.”

Billy lifts his head up. “I … I really don’t mind, Steve.” The matching roughness of his voice should speak for itself. As it is, Billy is achingly hard and knows Steve must know. He’s got to know. Billy himself caught the barest press of Steve’s hips against his thigh before he was gone -

Steve just shakes his head. He’s tense; his shoulders stiff up by his ears, his eyes trained on the floor.

A quick inventory of his scent includes arousal, heady and thick and overpowering everything else, but underneath that is fear. Steve’s … _afraid._

Of going any further? Or of _Billy?_

Billy lifts himself up and crawls to the edge of the bed. When that doesn’t change anything, he very slowly drapes himself along Steve’s bare back and tucks his chin over Steve’s shoulder “Hey. We’ll go slow.”

Steve turns his face, his eyes shining. He lifts a hand to pull Billy’s arm around his waist, to hold him closer. The burning heat in the pit of his belly can’t overwhelm the warmth Billy feels all over at that one simple gesture.

And Billy finally understands. He gets why the passion would need to subside once you’ve found your mate. Because this feeling, this closeness, beats everything else.

*

So, it turns out Hopper left the Cabin to them. It turns out he also stocked the entire fridge and all the cupboards too – turns out he thought that Billy and Steve would be having some _wild_ type of sex right around now.

It’s not a bad assumption. And it’s not exactly wrong, either. It’s just completely _mortifying_.

All Billy was looking for was some damn water. As it stands, he's stumbled upon the evidence that Hopper thought they'd be near animalistic at this point. There's enough food for _weeks_.

“Yup. Uh-huh. Thanks Hop. Over.” Steve strolls out the room, fully dressed now. He’s wearing a soft looking cashmere jumper, as though he’s so rich he can just produce cashmere from thin air. He’s still got his pyjama bottoms on underneath, though. He’s holding a walkie-talkie up to his mouth, clearly having a conversation with Hopper.

Which is why Billy can hear the entire other side of the conversation.

“I mean it, Kid.” Hopper’s voice is clear and unmistakeable. “Nothing is too embarrassing. You got that? You need anything, and I mean _anything_ , I’m just a call away. Over.”

Steve’s entire face radiates heat, even from this short distance. He meets Billy’s gaze for a half-second and then wrenches his eyes to the left, fixed on the sink. Billy sips his glass of water.

His throat is tight and dry, even though he’s had a whole litre of water at this point.

“Uh. Sure. Gotta go, Hop. Over.” Steve ends quickly, and puts the walkie down before he glances back up over to Billy. “Uh. Your parents were worried, but Hopper let them know we’d found you last night and that it was better you sleep it off here than we drag you back home. He said it’s up to you, whether you want to go home, or …”

Billy’s heart leaps. “Or?”

“I mean.” Steve rubs the nape of his neck. “I don’t really feel like staying here, when there’s barely any signal –”

Instantly, Billy plummets. Of course. It makes sense. There’s butt fuck all to do here anyways, and it’s probably a good half hour outside of school, and it’s not even the weekend –

“But my place is free, I have loads of spare rooms, we could watch some movies and just call in sick to school –”

Billy blinks. “Wait.”

Steve stops. His cheekbones are pink, sharply defined and beautiful. “Yeah?”

“You want me to come home with you?” Billy repeats, because he needs it confirmed. He needs to know, right this minute, what the fuck Steve is actually saying.

Steve ducks his head, but he steps closer, his body heat like a blanket over Billy’s still bare chest. “I mean, yeah. Just until, you know. Your rut has passed.”

Billy’s mouth is open, but no sound escapes. He manages a strangled grunt, and then, “You mean – passed as in – ”

Steve nods, and shuffles forward so he’s caging Billy against the sink, both hands gripping the counter as Steve breathes close to his face. He’s still avoiding Billy’s eyes, breath hot, but he brushes their noses together and Billy thinks maybe it’s not that Steve won’t meet his gaze, but he just can’t.

Billy knows the feeling.

“We’ll be alone.” Steve whispers, barely audible. “We’ll have time. I want it to be – you know. Special.”

Billy lifts his hands to hold Steve’s face, tilts his face up to meet his eyes. “I want that too.”

Steve kisses him again, softly this time.

*

So of course, that’s basically when everything goes to shit.

Because they pack up their few scant things and take some of the food Hopper stocked up on too. Billy gets dressed in Steve’s jeans and another one of Steve’s sweaters (he suspects Hopper dropped off some clothes in the night), and he’s bathed in Steve’s scent, only now it’s not an awful thing.

It’s not that numbing, anesthetised smell that rubbed up against the back of his throat and made him furious. It’s Steve’s natural scent – some inexplicable mixture of sunshine and cotton, of happiness and home. Billy is drunk on it within seconds.

They pile into Steve’s Beemer with nervous grins and Billy feels – insane. Totally batshit crazy. He’s full, and sated, and hot all over, and trembling, and jumpy, as if he’s just coming down from a high, but also as if he’s just about to head into the best high of his life.

His heart is a ceaseless pound in his chest, and he knows he’s stinking up the space with all his emotion – fear, excitement, nausea, happiness – but Steve is none the wiser, which Billy tries to see as a silver lining.

If he could scent Billy, then he’d know everything Billy was feeling. For some reason, the thought isn’t as abhorrent as it was this morning.

The fact that Steve can’t have this – that they can’t understand each other in this way. It just leaves Billy feeling sad.

That’s not how everything turns to shit, though.

Because they make it back to Steve’s mansion, Steve’s fingers nervous and shaky on his keys until he twists and –

Steve frowns. He pushes the door. “It’s open.” He says.

Inside, Steve’s parents are waiting.

Steve stiffens up as though he’s a deer in the headlights of an oncoming truck. “Uh.”

“Steve.” A woman Billy supposes must be Steve’s mother stands up. “It’s so good to see you. We’ve been so worried.”

Steve blinks, dumbly. Billy does the same – because worried? They’ve been absent the entire time Billy’s known Steve. Which is coming up on a couple months, but still.

The man Billy guesses is Steve’s dad stands up too. “We know you’ve come off your suppressants. We spoke to your doctor, and she thought that was best too.”

Billy tries not to bristle like a porcupine – because _best?_

**_Best?_ **

Do they have any idea they damage they’ve done to Steve? He might not even be able to form a _mate bond_ because of this. Because they lied to Steve and let him believe it was perfectly safe to keep taking suppressants for _years_.

“Why are you here?” Steve states, voice flat. He’s clearly not convinced either.

“We’re here to find you an Omega, Steve.” His mother replies, and smiles. “We’ve talked about it, and we think it’s time.”

Billy goes cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SORRY! For the cliff-hanger, but if I want plot things to move along unfortunately I have to leave things at awkward places sometimes. Never fear!!! All will be answered. Please no rotten fruit and veg! *ducks*

**Author's Note:**

> 🌟🌟🌟 Thank you so much for getting this far! Please let me know your thoughts: comments are the main thing that motivate me. They are my lifeblood! They water my crops! 🌟🌟🌟 Or leave a little kudos if you have none!
> 
> Also, if you enjoy my work please considering subscribing to my lil user. I appreciate each and every one of you guys ♥️


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